Consequences (Hypotheticals Series--Season 2)
by JohnQKole
Summary: Post Season 2. Beckett goes on vacation while Castle is writing in the Hamptons. Circumstances cross their paths and they end up spending some of that time together.
1. Chapter 1

A/N-Okay, this is my Season 2 "What If" scenario. As always with these types of stories, I hope I don't venture too far from the characters as they were, but some license is definitely taken. I've decided to post this one separately because it's a little more off canon, and could go on a little longer (I have 2 different spots where I can end this story, and I'm not sure which one I'll choose).

* * *

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 1

Kate has had enough of…well…enough of everything. She ended a relationship that could have been good. Of course she didn't break off things with Demming for Castle, she _promises_ herself that. Maybe she's just meant to be on her own. Nothing wrong with that.

It has been nearly a month since Castle waltzed out of the precinct with Gina. Since then, everything she sees at work irritates her, and when no new cases roll in before her weekend, she asks Captain Montgomery if she can take two weeks off. He grants her the leave (she asks for time off so infrequently), and she tells him and everyone else around her as little as possible about her plans.

The next afternoon when it is time to leave, Kate isn't in a rush. She's doing things at her own pace, every moment of this vacation will be on her terms, in her own good time. She is completely independent, under only her own influence…she is free. After packing a few essentials in her motorcycle-friendly overnight bag, she grabs her helmet and heads off to retrieve her bike from the garage where she stores it.

Beckett slings a leg over the bike, sitting for a moment while she starts it up, giving the engine time to warm up while she affixes the bag in place. As the engine's sputter regulates and evens, indicating the bike is nearly ready, she slides her black leather jacket on before donning her helmet.

Her only definite plan is that she will ride where she wants, when she wants, although she's not quite sure yet where those places will be. Maybe she'll meet a guy, enjoy a summer fling, someone _very_ different from both Castle and Demming, someone who doesn't remind her of the NYPD, crime, or her real life back home. Maybe that's what she needs. Or maybe not.

When she's ready, she hits the throttle, lifts her feet onto the pegs and slides out of the space with a sense of excitement and anticipation.

She takes 95 North, knowing that will get her out of New York, and then she can decide where to go next. After riding for nearly 3 hours, she stops to fuel her bike and have a relaxing dinner at a taphouse with ocean views and a fantastic whiskey bar.

The server asks twice if anyone will be joining her.

She opts to crash in the relatively inexpensive but clean motel nearby to sleep for the night. She is pretty sure she's spoken less than ten words to anyone all day.

The funny thing is, she sleeps very well on that a-bit-too-firm mattress, her body happily in vacation mode. She wakes early, just after the sun, and brews herself a passable cup of coffee in the 4 cup pot in her room and takes a very long, very hot shower. The towels are too thin and almost wiry, probably a near cousin of steel wool, but that doesn't dampen her mood. After she puts on her black tank top and dark indigo jeans, she opens the heavy, busy-patterned drapes and looks out and sees the bright day that awaits her. It doesn't take her long to gather her things. Today she plans on riding for hours on end.

Just before she gets on her bike, she moves her cell phone from her pants' pocket to put it in her jacket where she can zip it safely away, and notices the blinking indicator light. Kate feels pretty damn certain almost everyone who knows her knows she does not want to be bothered, or is too busy in the Hamptons to text her, so she checks it.

Part of her thinks it might be Demming…maybe he wants to try to convince her to give things a go with him. But the text is from Castle, and reads: _Come ASAP. 911._ A second text from him lists an address.

She texts back: _What's going on?_ and when he doesn't respond after several minutes, she taps and sends: _This better not be a joke. On my way._

She tries not to, but she fears the worst.

The next thing she knows, she's back on her bike, heading to the Hamptons. The ride isn't short. She has a couple of hours to admonish herself for responding to him so quickly. The words beck-and-call pop in her mind, but she ignores them. He really irritated her before he left for the summer (maybe 'hurt her' is the more accurate description), but he is her partner, and if he is in trouble, maybe held hostage, or hurt…well she will never forgive herself if she doesn't look into it.

And if this is all a jackass prank, she _will_ find a way to make him regret it.

She uses her phone's GPS and one earbud and finds herself at the address. She sees a car she thinks is Gina's, although it could be Castle's. He probably has a few cars she's never seen.

Beckett removes her helmet, tucking it under her arm, and walks around the periphery of the home. She realizes all too well that Castle has a bit more money at his disposal than she'd previously assumed. Nothing seems out of place, though. There aren't any broken windows or doors or signs of struggle.

Opting to knock on the door, she feels prepared for whatever she may face. She taps on the door first, then tries the doorbell, and then decides she needs to pound a bit more heavily. If he doesn't answer the door in the next minute, she's going to find another way in.

A few heavy steps from inside precede the sound of the opening lock, and she's face to face with Castle. He doesn't appear to be under any sort of duress. In fact, he's in his pajamas and robe, hair out of place enough to make her realize he was sleeping until she woke him.

"Beckett!" Castle declares with what appears to be complete surprise. He seems quite happy to see her. "What are you doing here?"

Kate shakes her head with confusion, digging her phone out of her pocket to make sure she didn't imagine the text.

"You texted me," Kate tells him.

"I did?" He doesn't look like a person who just successfully pulled off a really good prank. He just seems confused.

"I told you she'd show up the moment you asked," an enraged female voice says from behind him, storming closer.

"Because he texted me about an emergency," Beckett clarifies.

Kate stares at her phone, willing the texts to appear even though they seem abnormally difficult to find. She feels pathetic, imagining that Gina thinks she's jealous of the thought of Castle and his ex-wife together. _Which is completely ridiculous, _Kate reminds herself. _What he does and who he does it with couldn't matter less to me._

When she finally sees the message, right on top where the newest text would be, she turns it to show them, just to prove to herself and them that she hasn't lost her mind.

Gina declares victoriously, "One text from you and she drops everything and shows up here in…" she pauses and looks over Kate's outfit, her lip snarling, "she shows up here in head-to-toe tight, black leather."

Kate gasps, "Hey." The only leather she is wearing is her jacket and her boots, she nearly clarifies. Focusing on the details that are truly important, she continues, "The text said 911. To me that means there's an emergency. Of course I came. I'd show up for any of the guys on my team."

"I'm on your team?" he grins, leaning his shoulder against the door. "Beckett, I'm touched. It's one thing to be a consultant, but I'm getting a definite partner vibe."

She closes her eyes, rubbing her fingers into her forehead. "Would you please tell me why I'm here? I am on vacation…so if there isn't an emergency, let me know and I'll get back on the road."

"I didn't text you."

"I did," Gina announces. "I proved my point."

"Which was?" Castle asks Gina.

"I told you something is going on between you two."

"Nothing is going on!" Kate and Castle shout in unison.

"You've barely noticed I'm even here for the last two weeks," Gina shakes her head, lifting her suitcase.

"You know how I get when I'm writing."

"I do. And after what I read yesterday, I know why you're so…_distracted_."

"It's no different from dozens of other things I've written."

"It is completely different. And I could have handled that…but you add that, plus how distant and disinterested you are, and then…_then…_what you said yesterday morning! How can you blame me?"

"What did he say? What did you say?" Kate asks each in turn, waiting for an answer.

"It was a dream! About a _fictional_ case!" he explains quite adamantly.

"Fuck you, Rick," Gina argues, pushing her way through everyone and going out the door with her belongings. "I thought things changed. I thought you were serious about making this work. You can't use me as a placeholder when things don't work out with other women." Like a tiny tornado she swoops down the stairs, throws her suitcase in the trunk with surprising gusto, and gets into her overpriced luxury automobile. Rolling down the window, she adds, "Don't call. Don't text. Leave me alone." She backs up hurriedly, running right into Kate's bike as the pair helplessly watch it lean ever further until it tips completely. The fall is immediately followed by the painful crunching of metal as Gina backs up a little bit more.

"I'll fix that," he immediately offers as the car takes off, leaving puffs of sand and gravel hanging in the air.

"What did you do to her? And why in the hell does it involve me?" Kate gripes like an angry school teacher, hand propped on her hip and eyes flaring with anger. For the moment, she forgets the bike as she fights the desire to shove him for whatever he's done. And, yes, she's angry at Gina about the bike, but she knows how infuriating Castle can be, so her frustration is spread across multiple targets.

"Nothing! I didn't do anything!"

"You would think someone who's supposed to be so good with women would actually _be _good with women."

"You've heard that? Who told you and exactly what words did they use?" he says far too happily for a guy who was just dumped.

"Tell me what happened. _Now_."

"Nothing!" Castle repeats with innocence no right-minded jury would buy. Especially when he finally really looks at her and his eyes move over the tight jeans and tank top that is partly covered by her heavy jacket. His stare follows the dip in the tank to her cleavage. "Finally doing the cover of 'Hot Motorcycle Cops Monthly'?" he teases, eyebrow raising. "I could go with you…I hear those photographers sometimes take advantage of their models, so if you want me there to—" her stare interrupts him, and he decides silence is the best option.

She scowls, feeling absolute fury, and chooses not to let him bait her. "Thanks for getting me mixed up in your love life and ruining my vacation."

"Ex."

"What?" she snaps.

"Ex. As in 'ex-love life,' apparently. Doesn't seem to have worked out." He appears ambivalent about the blowup.

"I don't understand what I have to do with that fight."

Her fondness for him always seems to sit under the surface. She often chides herself for that. The part of her that was hurt when he left kind of hopes to tip the scales back in her favor.

Beckett holds off as long as she can, but without the breeze created by riding, the jacket is stifling in the summer sun. Sweat gathers and drips down her back, so she shrugs the weighty jacket off, drapes it over a chair on the porch with her helmet, and feels grateful for the ocean breeze.

Castle stares like he's mapping her body. "I really appreciate this biker chick thing you have going."

"Focus!" she disciplines.

"Believe me, I am," he scoffs, then seems to realize he isn't being subtle and she is not at all receptive to this line of flirtation.

"What did you say that upset her?" she states the phrase precisely and slowly, like she is speaking to someone who doesn't fluently speak her language.

"It was no big deal. I've been working on my book, writing. I dreamed about a case and talked in my sleep. She heard your name and completely overreacted. We're together a lot and reality creeps into the subconscious. You probably talk about me in your sleep, too."

"No one has mentioned it."

"How many possible contestants are we talking about here?" he asks, jealous interest rising.

She snarls to dismiss the question, which he plainly comprehends.

That question bypassed, she refocuses. "Something tells me that if you said 'Beckett, we've got a case' or 'how much pressure do you think is required to shove a chopstick through someone's temple' in your sleep, she wouldn't have been so suspicious."

"Eh," he blows off the questions. Acting like Beckett just casually stopped by, he offers, "Come on in. Have a cup of coffee. I'll call someone to come take a look at your bike."

"Forget it," she mumbles through gritted teeth, hurrying down the front stairs to her upended motorcycle. She bends at the knees to get low enough to right it. The bike is considerably heavy and she knows this will not be easy.

He comes down the steps after her. "Here. Let me help," he proposes, but she just glowers. She begrudgingly accepts his assistance, though, mostly because her hands are too occupied to push him away.

Once it is upright, she sees the fenders are ruined and the gas tank dented. Those things she could cope with. But worst of all, the front tire is deflated and the rim sharply bent. There is no way she can ride anywhere like this.

"Coffee?" he suggests again. "Come on. I'll call someone right now to come fix it. Or I'll get you a new one. It's the least I can do."

She walks toward the front door first, accepting his offer implicitly, already missing the feeling of being alone on the road with her machine and so much less stress.

Castle pours coffee. It smells good, but she can't seem to muster any enjoyment for it. He is on the phone, as promised, making arrangements for her bike.

When he hangs up, he announces, "As good as fixed. Well, almost. Soon fixed."

She is sitting at the kitchen island, chin in her hand, moping.

"I am sorry," he adds sweetly, with a genuine tone she takes to heart. "But they'll get it fixed up in no time." Clearly trying to cheer her up, he asks, "So what crazy plans do you have for your vacation?"

"I was going to ride…you know…go where I want. Answer to no one."

"Just ride around?" he says with disappointment.

"Yea. No plan, wait and see where the days might take me. Live in the moment, let life happen. See things and y—you wouldn't understand. You do what you want every day."

"Of all of the things you _could_ do on vacation—" he pauses suddenly when he sees her rage. "Sounds fun, really," he encourages. "But how about this…I'll make it up to you. Today, while your bike is being fixed, I'll show you some of the things I do when I'm here…vacationing, not working. You can do research into my world. Like switching roles. It'll be fun."

"I don't think so, Castle."

* * *

A van with the phrase "Two Alexes Auto Body Repair," pulls up outside while Beckett unloads her few personal items from the bike and Castle is inside getting dressed.

Kate is already annoyed, and the damage to her bike seems to look worse the longer she stares at it. It appears that Castle called an Auto Repair shop to fix her bike, and she wonders if this place is familiar enough with bikes to fix hers properly.

The duo seem to know what they're talking about though. There's a man and a woman, both Alexes, supposedly. The female Alex speaks to Kate at length about the bike, and her expertise puts Kate at ease. The news, however, is not great. They will need at least a few days, maybe a week, due to some frame damage and ordering in parts. Castle comes out to join them just as they deliver the bad news.

Male Alex flashes a smile and Kate notices the way Castle seems irritated by the mechanic's rugged handsomeness. Alex is definitely the classic tough guy. The oil and dirt stains on his coveralls make his ruggedness seem more…rugged.

"If you're stuck here, we'd love to show you around some evening," male Alex offers.

Castle breathes in sharply, but Kate replies, "Thanks. Really. I'd like that…but I won't be staying. I'm going to get a ride back home."

"If you change your mind," he says, handing her his card.

Castle and Beckett watch them load up the bike and drive off. "They both totally want to have sex with you," he announces.

"No, they don't," Kate says, exasperated.

"They do. But…almost everyone wants to have sex with you. That's a fact. You're so used to it you don't even notice anymore."

She turns and scowls, "This is why you could never be a real cop. You can't create facts. You can't state whatever you want to state as if it's the truth, or add the phrase 'that's a fact' and declare it a fact. That's not how facts work."

"You seem really tense. Let me order you one of the best lunches you will ever have, and—"

"I don't want lunch. I want to get back to my vacation or go home. Let me borrow your car. I'll come back in a few days when my bike is ready."

"No can do!" he cheerily answers. "Gina drove me up here, so I am officially without a vehicle."

At the exact moment when she's ready to unleash her fury, he meets her gaze. His expression is full of remorse. "I really am sorry about your bike. If you want, I'll be happy, no, _more_ than happy, to buy you a new one."

"That's not necessary."

"I feel bad about what happened…that you got mixed up in this."

A wave of regret passes over her. "It really wasn't your fault," she admits. "You didn't text me, or hit my bike."

"Still, I can't help but feel a little responsible."

This time when he turns and walks back inside, she walks beside him. He pours her another coffee and leans over the island as he talks. "I think I have the perfect way to make it up to you."

"Oh god."

"No, really. Tomorrow there's a picnic. Games, food, one of the absolute best fireworks displays you'll ever see. I already have tickets."

"You have _tickets_ to a _picnic_?"

"It's a fundraiser."

"Trying to help recently impoverished hedge fund managers keep their fancy beach houses?" she jokes. "No thanks."

He walks over to a desk in the kitchen, opens a drawer and produces the tickets and a pamphlet. "It's for an organization that supports special needs kids. They run summer camps and help provide services," he explains. He waits for the realization to hit her, and then continues on, "Do you honestly not care about the children?"

She shakes her head and silently giggles as she reviews the documents. "Yes. I do."

He holds it up, pointing to a particularly adorable child with a beautiful grin and lively eyes who has leg braces. "How can you say 'no' to this face? Doesn't Anna deserve—"

"Yes, of course she does," she interrupts, half laughing. "I didn't know. So philanthropic of you, Castle."

"It's pretty cool," he replies without accusation, "all the things they do for these kids. It's a good cause. That will give the Alexes a couple of days to work on your bike, and you'll have fun and be part of something great in the process. Win-win." Sensing she still might say no, he adds, "Come with me. Please?"

"I don't have anything to wear to something like this. I packed 3 outfits that are essentially exactly like this one. I tried to bring as little as possible. Not much room for luggage on a bike."

"I'll buy you something new."

"I'm not trying on outfits for you."

"That would be absurd!" he teases. "I'd try them on myself. You have the completely wrong body type to try on clothes for me."

"You're not funny," she attempts to deadpan as she shakes away a smirk.

"It'll be fun."

"You have a guest room?"

"Naturally. Let me give you a nice vacation. Not the one you wanted, but hopefully fun." He holds up the pamphlet in front of his face and says, "Come on, Detective Beckett…for me?"

"That's low," she argues, hiding her chuckle, "using these kids to get your way."

"You are frighteningly bad at going with the flow…do you know that? I mean, you said the whole point of this vacation was to see what happened. 'Live in the moment, let life happen…' Your words, not mine. Maybe _this_ is the vacation life had planned for you. So live a little. What's the worst that could happen?"

* * *

Things had not been going well with Gina. It didn't take long for Castle to realize that getting back together with her was not his most genius idea. Especially when he couldn't stop thinking about Beckett. That nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him how jealous he felt when he saw Kate with someone else. It was easier to move on with Gina than deal with how he felt about Kate. Besides, he wanted to finish his book.

But now Kate is here, at his place, and part of him wonders maybe if there is justice in the universe, perhaps things do work out as they should. He considers asking the Alexes to move slowly on the bike repairs, but opts instead to try to show Kate the best time possible while she is there. He also knows he doesn't want to look too invested. This is supposed to be fun, friends enjoying a vacation, and suddenly he's willing to put the book aside for a bit.

Castle calls his "fixer" to deal with food and clothes. Jackie, the woman he considers a fixer, doesn't deal in scandals or illegal cover-ups, she's an assistant he's hired on many occasions while at his vacation place. But _fixer_ sounds much cooler.

Kate takes a bath since it will take a little time to get lunch. He isn't sure if she truly wants a bath, or just needs a few moments away from him. Either way, his home away from home rivals finer resorts for comfort and amenities, so perhaps some of these perks will help her enjoy this lucky little turn of events.

He is looking over the lunch spread set carefully in the outdoor seating area by the pool when he finds Kate in the backyard, staring out at the water. Her hair is still damp from the bath, longer even than when he left a few weeks earlier, and although she has on fresh clothing, the outfit is very similar to the earlier one. The clothes cling to her body so wonderfully, and he is happy for a chance to stare at her unnoticed. When she turns, he waves her over.

She sees Jackie, and for a second he notes an uncertain look. He wonders if it's jealousy. Correction…he _hopes_ it's jealousy. Jackie is quite attractive, a woman in her early 50s with proudly unmasked greying hair. She's happily married, although Castle isn't going to tell Kate that.

Jackie smiles at Kate and asks Castle, "Is this the muse?"

"Inspiration," Castle corrects. "But yes. Kate Beckett, this is Jackie, my fixer."

"Fixer?" Kate asks, immediately investigating for signs of foul play.

"I'm an assistant," Jackie replies, "party planning, catering, that sort of thing. Rick, you're right…with a figure like that, she can wear pretty much anything." She leads Beckett toward a table covered by several plastic clothing bags with hangers jutting out of the tops. "We could make a garbage bag look good on you," Jackie compliments sweetly.

She shows Kate a few outfits, dresses mostly, lightly flowy and perfect for an upscale picnic. Castle really, really wants Beckett to step into the outdoor shower stall and try each one on, come out and pose for him to let him help her choose. What better opportunity to ogle and evaluate then when asked to do so?

But she takes three of the dresses she likes to the stall and tries them on without offering a glimpse in between. She doesn't emerge until she's selected the one she wants and is back in her own garments, refusing to even model the winner for him. She keeps the chosen outfit, still in the bag, and thanks Jackie.

Jackie looks at Castle, peeking around Kate, who is walking over to join him. Jackie smiles, and he sees her approval and what he can only interpret as a 'good luck' grin before she leaves.

"Find something?" he asks.

"Yea," Beckett replies, refusing to elaborate.

He wonders what she's thinking because she seems distracted, and finally she pauses, tilts her head and asks, "Why do you even go back to the city?"

Castle smiles, and once he starts, he can't stop. "You like it here?"

"Stunning. It's so peaceful. Like a different planet."

He can't believe how good this makes him feel, because frankly he thought he'd have to fight to get her to admit it wasn't horrible, and already she's taken with the place.

"So?" she asks. "Why go back to the city? Why not live here?"

"Alexis's school. Mother. The cultural, educational, and artistic possibilities are abundant for them in the city. And for me."

"Oh," she replies. He thinks she's disappointed.

He leans an elbow on the table and says, "Besides, the NYPD needs me."

"Do they?" she scoffs.

"I hope so," he answers and waits, finding no response.

It's infuriating and fascinating the way she can let an implication hang in the air without even acknowledging it. Would it kill her, just this once, to agree that they need him (or at least like having him around).

When she doesn't add any of the things he wants to hear, he says, "Besides…it's nice to keep a vacation spot special. Some place I can get away to, hide for a little while."

"I can understand that."

"So what's Demming up to?" Castle blurts out after clearing his throat.

He did not intend to ask, but he's been dying to the whole time. After all, if things with Demming were going well, he figured she'd want to spend her time off with him. The thought of Beckett with Demming makes Castle's chest tighten a little.

"How should I know?" she asks, reaching for a glass of well-chilled sangria, frozen fruit tinging against the glass, that was already waiting for her.

Again, no more explanation, no details offered to satisfy his curiosity.

"So what happened?" he probes.

"Nothing happened," she shrugs.

Castle is beginning to feel a bit irritated. He is an eager listener, and _really_ wants to hear what she has to say, but so often she refuses to let him in.

Kate sits back as he hands her a dinner plate and pulls the covers off the dishes.

"You know it's funny, Castle," she says, "the way you love to ask questions."

"I'm a curious guy. Part of being a writer. And since you've helped to inspire me, I'm always willing to learn more."

"Conversation should be a two way street."

"I'm all for that. Converse away."

"No. I mean, you want me to answer your questions, but you don't answer mine. You make a joke or deflect any serious question I ask. So you want me to bare all, but you aren't willing to do the same."

"I'm looking forward to the 'you baring all' portion of the day."

Her face drops, looking midway between anger and sorrow as she says, "That's exactly what I mean."

"Okay, fine," he attempts to be more agreeable, "what do you want to know?"

"What really happened with Gina? Why was she so upset?"

"We both remembered why we're not good together."

"No," Beckett shakes her head with certainty. "If she felt that way, she wouldn't have baited me into showing. She wouldn't have been so angry at you. She would have agreed that it didn't work. She was upset. Disappointed."

Castle sighs. "I wasn't very attentive this last week or two. Probably longer. I was busy thinking about my book. She was curious, read part of it, completely without my permission by the way—"

"—exactly what you would do in her position—"

"No I wouldn't!" he argues. Then he ponders and capitulates. "Yea. I probably would. And she claims I was talking about you in my sleep. Which is possible. When I'm writing, it kind of takes over sometimes, invades all of my thoughts. Since you're my inspiration, I've been thinking a lot about you and Nikki."

"What did she read that bothered her so much?"

"I write scenes like that all of the time."

"Scenes like what?"

"Sex scenes, you know. She chose to get jealous. But, in her defense, I have been distracted. And that probably made her more suspicious."

"Wait, sex? With me?"

"No. A sex scene written with _Nikki_. Which was the very thing Gina failed to understand. It has nothing to do with you. It's a character. It's fiction."

Beckett nods. "So you're thinking about Nikki and dreaming about your story, but in your dreams you talk to me, not Nikki. So is Gina that crazy for feeling like the lines between me and the character get blurry sometimes?"

He winces, feeling like she's hit on something, so he deflects. "So, Detective Conversation Expert…I've shared. Now where's Demming?"

"I honestly don't know," she replies. "It just…he just wasn't what I wanted. No point in pretending if I already know that."

"What do you want?" Castle asks, feeling a sense of opportunity.

"I don't know yet," she answers, and he sees she isn't deflecting. It's the truth. "I figure I'll know it when I find it."

"Yea," he nods. "It was like that with Gina, I think. I knew it wasn't what I want, but…I probably could have handled things better."

"Do you know?"

"Know what?"

"What you want?"

"I'm not really sure either," he explains. Slipping into his announcer voice, he adds, "You and I, like the cop buddies of old, one a committed bachelor, the other a jaded divorcee, not tied down, married to the job."

Kate shakes her head with amusement. "Which classic cop duos featured one blatantly, shamelessly flirting with the other?"

"Hey, give yourself credit, your shameless flirting has become more nuanced recently."

Beckett scowls but there's that touch of a smirk yet again. "Do you really believe all the lies you tell yourself?" she teases.

"Only the really good ones."

Her smile cracks through, and she helps herself to some lunch.

"So, finally I get to see 'Vacation Beckett.' Hair down, free and wild."

"Yup. Here I am," she drawls in monotone. "Exciting, isn't it?"

"Exactly how crazy are we talking about here?"

She leans in, and whispers in that flirty voice. "Well…close your eyes. Think of your wildest Beckett fantasies, the things you've thought of that I'd never, ever do…multiply that by ten…and then…"

He leans closer, waiting.

"Pinch yourself," she victoriously declares. "My idea of a good vacation is a motorcycle ride without a plan. That's about as crazy as I get."

"Come on. We both know that's not true. You have a simmering wild side beneath your law-abiding exterior. You just constantly feel the need to dominate it. This is a safe place!"

She laughs abruptly. "Being here with you at your second home at the beach does not feel like a safe place."

"You find me _that_ irresistible, do you?" She doesn't answer, but he swears that the look on her face qualifies as flirting, and he's half tempted to snap a pic and show her so she knows how she's looking at him. Just once he'd like her to admit that she flirts back. Instead he opts for, "Come on, Beckett…what happens in the Hamptons stays—"

"Don't say it!" she interrupts. "That saying is an excuse for people to do things they know they shouldn't do."

"Just you and me here. If we're the only ones who know, what's the harm?" He's playing with her, of course, teasing because he feels like he can study her and learn things, maybe get her to confess something without putting himself on the line.

She pauses, and he feels like whatever is about to come will truly be telling. But she chooses once again to shift the conversation. "Anywhere to shoot pool around here?"

"Here," he nods toward the house. "There's always poker, too. And if you're here the day after the picnic, I have an idea that may fulfill your need for high speeds and exploration. Not a motorcycle, but pretty fun nonetheless."

"Really?"

"Put yourself in my very relaxation-capable hands, and I will do my best not to disappoint. In fact, by the time you leave, you may even be grateful your bike got smashed up by my ex." She raises a doubtful eyebrow and he equivocates. "Fine…'grateful' may be too strong a word. But maybe you won't mind so much."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N—Thanks so much to all who've read, reviewed/liked/followed this story. I'm really excited about it. There's a bit of slow burn here at the beginning (hope it's not too slow). I had this chap done faster than I thought I would…I have the next chapter partially complete, so I'll try to get in up soon. Again, your responses to this mean so much to me, so thank you.

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 2

* * *

Castle rents a car to take Beckett on a tour of the area. He realizes as he calls for the car that she may want to use the vehicle to go home, although she doesn't make any such demand.

This is the first place that came to mind during lunch. He wants to take her somewhere new, somewhere open and peaceful, so different from her normal days in alleys, precincts, and morgues, a place where she won't need to deliver bad news or see some of the worst humanity has to offer.

It's a gamble, but as he pulls up to the abandoned lighthouse trail, she doesn't seem disappointed. He knows it's a lengthy walk, a little over 5 miles in total, but it seems a good opportunity to talk, perhaps about things other than death. He, of course, loves a good case, but for now he's not so interested in exploring the macabre.

He mentions the next day's fundraising picnic as they stroll, and she volunteers a story about attending similar events as a child with her parents. She tells him about cotton candy bigger than her head, carnival games, and poorly rendered images painted on her cheek that she tried desperately not to smudge in spite of their lack of quality. Her words are fond and nostalgic, and he thinks perhaps her impromptu visit could not have come at a better time since the event is near.

For the most part, their conversation flows easily, probably the longest non-work conversation they have ever shared. Things are going well, even better than he'd anticipated.

They see the abandoned lighthouse in the distance, the sunlight glinting off the windows. Castle feels in his element, entertaining and interesting, showing her something beautiful for once. Then he mentions restoration efforts for the defunct lighthouse.

"I heard they might make it a bed and breakfast," she adds to the story.

"Oh!" he exclaims with wonder. It seems difficult to find a subject she's not well-versed in. "You've been here before?"

"No," she unguardedly replies. "I was researching sightseeing locations up here a few weeks ago and—"

"Wait," he accuses enthusiastically. "_You_ were researching places up here?"

Immediately he hopes that she may have been considering his invitation to visit before the unconventional string of events that brought her here.

His excitement doesn't transfer to her though, and her feet crunch on the stony path more quickly as he's certain she's walking a good deal faster.

"Hey," he trots a few steps to catch up and touches her elbow to turn her. He uses very little force, but she stops immediately. She stares him down, almost confrontationally, and then her gaze falters.

"Were you…honestly thinking about coming up here to see me? I mean before the whole thing with the 911 text?" Rick questions.

He waits, feeling the chill descend so abruptly and harshly it's like a blizzard on a muggy New York City summer's day. He regrets the question. Of course he doesn't regret the question as much as he regrets the possibility that he may have blown an opportunity in the first place.

"Beckett?" he asks gently. "I didn't—"

"You don't own the Hamptons, _Castle_," she refutes before he can finish. "You aren't the only reason to come here."

Her voice is softer than normal, with undertones of defeat. He would rather have her scold him, lay into him with her frustration. The sadness in her voice makes him feel awful. Tugging her arm away from the point where they touch (but barely so), she continues along the path. Her attempt to avoid only makes him more certain that his impression is correct.

Rick feels the silence weighing on his shoulders, his brain flying a mile a minute through the arsenal of words he has at his disposal, hoping to devise something to say to make this better. He can't seem to come up with anything that won't make things worse.

Beckett's pace slows a bit, and he hopes her annoyance is easing as well. She stops on a little foot bridge over salty marsh and leans her elbows on the railing to stare at the lighthouse. The sun is so vibrant it almost makes the huge stone bricks radiate light like the sides of the Great Pyramids. It's topped with a rusty cap that signals its neglect.

"It's imposing. And beautiful," she says, the first to break the silence, likely trying to move past their previous exchange.

"It is _stunning_," he replies, his arm nearly touching hers, the smell of her sunscreen swimming through his senses as he takes the spot next to her against the railing.

"It's slowly deteriorating. Wonder if there will be enough interest to save it."

"Something so breathtaking deserves far more attention…and appreciation," he mentions, obviously speaking of more than lighthouses. "But just because it hasn't been properly cared for in the past doesn't mean someone won't realize that it's been here all along, waiting, maybe right here in his backyard, and he'll decide to take action."

"I dunno," she comments after a little thought, "that's possible. Or maybe it's used to being empty, left in peace out here. Maybe it prefers to be left alone without people renovating it."

After a few seconds of silent contemplation, he declares, "Restoration is not the same as renovation. _Restoring_ something implies making it great as it is, returning it to its glory without reinventing it. _Renovation_ includes change and modification. That lighthouse is absolutely perfect just the way it is. If people try to restore it, they don't want to change the structure itself. It's about taking something beautiful and strong and just…showing it some care, helping it get out from under years of neglect, allowing it to be amazing exactly as it always has been. Although...might help if they fix up some of these bridges and paths so it's easier to get to."

She doesn't argue or agree with his suggestion. They stare in the general direction of the lighthouse, listening to the chattering of others walking on the path as they pass by.

Words are constantly on the tip of his tongue, continuously flowing through his thoughts. He holds them for now. Standing tall after the pause, she faces him, and finally responds to what he said.

"All this restoration and repair talk...practicing to audition for a job on one of those home design shows?" she flippantly jokes while she encourages him to continue their walk.

"If the pseudo cop thing doesn't work," he quips back, "I _may _be considering a few ideas for shows."

"Ruggedly Handsome Design?" she throws out.

He chuckles happily, then pulls a horror voice, "A Home to Die For?"

When he looks at her this time, she's smiling toward the ground, her feet moving with less hurried precision and more relaxed sauntering.

He stops and practically squeals, "Oh my god, we could co-host and fix up houses that were crime scenes! You know how they like those 'opposites' kinds of shows. You're pragmatic and logical, I'm the entertainment, the flair. We're both hot! Who wouldn't want to watch?"

They continue talking through the ridiculous scenario, unpleasantness averted, or so he hopes. In spite of the fact that he feels he's ameliorated the damage of what might have been an unwitting rejection of her, his chest aches at the thought, particularly because she has wordlessly made it clear she does not want to talk about it with him. But he'd like a chance to tell her his side of the story. Perhaps this explains the extra frost around her when she first showed up. He replays her words shortly after arrival in his head: _You would think someone who's supposed to be so good with women would actually be good with women. _

Maybe that comment had a lot more to do with how Beckett felt than how she thought Gina felt.

"Castle?" she asks loudly, interrupting his thoughts. "You blanking out or just ignoring me?"

"Sorry," he smiles over at her, apologizing for much more than not listening.

"Thinking about your story?"

"Nope," he answers. She isn't the only one who can leave a question hang in the air unanswered.

* * *

Beckett realizes how raw she still is from Castle's choice to leave for the summer with Gina a month ago. She tried to ignore those feelings, shove them down deep and pretend they weren't there, but she failed, and was still failing.

She considers herself a champion feeling-squelcher, she's done it for so long, so why is it difficult with him? Maybe it's his constant attempts to get under her skin, and the fact that she has so little time away from him. But, then again, she would have had plenty of time away from him while he was gone during the summer, yet she was upset when he left. She does not enjoy the sense of uneasiness he so often creates.

It's too bad that she let it slip that she was looking into going to the Hamptons before this. Part of her fears that he'll latch on to the idea that she was tempted by him, mock the very thought that careful, untouchable Beckett might be thoroughly swayed by his charms. But his reaction was not unkind, and when she wanted him to drop the subject he did, metaphors aside.

He isn't gloating, he's being sweet, a bit more attentive. On some level she wishes solitude didn't feel so comforting and safe, that she felt more confident in opening up.

She doesn't want to think about any of this; it's making her head hurt.

He seems to enjoy being outdoors, his whole demeanor more animated, even for him. Since his reflective mood has passed, he's back to chattering. It's disconcerting how much she enjoys the noise he creates. She's gotten used to it.

As they walk the loop back to the car, he is always close to her. Almost every time they step, their near arms brush, and too often when he talks to her, he isn't looking ahead, as most people would when walking on an unpredictable surface. He's looking at her. In fact, he trips over a large rock that snags his shoe, and he nearly goes flying toward the ground. He catches himself on a wooden pole marker and gashes his arm.

She hurries into action, noting the gush of blood that indicates the cut is deep and he probably snagged a blood vessel. "Keys," she orders, and he produces them. He doesn't have a little utility knife, just the key to the rental and house.

Placing his palm tightly over the wound to try to staunch the blood, she then raises his wrist above heart level and orders, "Don't turn around."

Once she circles behind him, she pulls off her tank top and uses the same pole that cut him to tear two strips off the bottom of the shirt before putting it back on. There are rusty nails, crooked and worn, jutting out of several spots on the pole, so he's definitely going to need medical attention.

When she comes back, she sees his eyes drift to her exposed abdomen and wonders why he would even bother looking at her when he's bleeding like this. Pulling his hand away from the gash, she quickly and tightly ties strips of her shirt over the cut. "Keep pressure on that," she orders. "I want to clean it, but it's bleeding a lot. Better leave that to the professionals."

"That was so badass. Tough," he says, admiringly.

"Thanks?" she asks, feeling like that really wasn't much of a compliment.

"And kinda hot," he adds in his frisky way.

"Remember, I've met your ex-wives. Both of them. _Tough_ is not your type."

"According to whom?"

"The evidence."

"I'm serious. Tastes change, evolve, sometimes as a direct result of the experiences you cite as evidence. A woman who knows how to take charge, who is ready to face whatever comes at her even if it means destroying a part of her somewhat meager wardrobe. Women like that are intriguing…and, as the present scenario has demonstrated, very good to have around."

She dryly retorts, "Well, I guess if you weren't okay with take-charge women, you probably would have found a different detective to tail."

"True," he compliments.

She takes his sore arm and puts it over her shoulder to keep it high and make sure he doesn't get woozy and fall again. It probably isn't necessary, but she doesn't mind the closeness. How is it that he still manages to smell good on a hike? He has a unique cologne, she's never noticed it on anyone else. Or perhaps it's the combination of cologne, hair product and deodorant. Or maybe it's some kind of weird Beckett-luring pheromone…that would explain a lot. It always smells so inviting.

He is studying her as they walk, she can see that in her peripheral vision. His gaze is fond, overtly so. She is certain that fond look is because he's found more inspiration for his character, or maybe dizziness from his injury.

* * *

"This sucks," he gripes while they wait at the Urgent Care. One arm resting on the exam table, he spins on the doctor's stool to look through all of the drawers in the exam room that are not locked.

Kate shoots a disapproving scowl toward Castle and his snooping. She takes the forms from in front of him and fills them out, demanding his wallet and insurance card, and he doesn't hesitate to give her what she asks for, but he makes a comment about how she's so much better at paperwork.

She's busy filling out the info, while he's fidgeting and impatient like a kid who got hurt and was forced to sit out during recess.

"I am sorry," he says, and that makes her look up.

"For?"

"Sitting at the doctor's office is _not_ fun."

"Neither is lockjaw," she says as she stares down at the paper. "A few stitches and a tetanus shot and you'll be good to go."

"Vacation fail." He sounds mopey.

"Worse things have happened," she reminds. "We can take a break from the fun for an hour to make sure you don't bleed out. Now _that _would be a vacation fail."

Just as Castle's expression blooms with an oncoming comeback, the nurse comes in, assessing the pair. Kate wonders what sort of injuries Urgent Care Providers in the Hamptons usually see. She guesses most visits have to do with viruses, sunburn, and alcohol poisoning; this place looks far different from similar facilities in New York.

She offers to leave, but Castle shrugs her off. "If you're really good, maybe they'll let you give me the shot."

She sneers at him.

Nurse Marcus cleans and preps the area around the wound, and while he's stitching, he talks to Kate. "The two of you are—"

"Friends," Kate interrupts.

"Co-workers. More like partners," Castle states at the same time.

"I've lived here almost my whole life, and I know you're not a local. But you seem kinda familiar. Part of the yearly summer crowd?" the nurse asks.

"First visit. Just for a few days," she answers, watching him while he sews. "I'm taking a road trip."

"You treated this wound?"

"'Treat' is a bit generous," she counters. She's a little tickled by the fact that Castle seems more annoyed by what appears to be the start of a flirtation than by the cut itself. "I'm a cop. We're all trained in the basics."

"A cop?" Marcus parrots with clear disappointment, and Kate sees that flirting screech to a halt. It's not the first time her occupation has earned her that sort of response.

"A cop?" Castle chimes in. "She's being modest. She's not _just _a cop. She's a detective. One of the youngest ever promoted to the position in any major city, with a solve rate that would put Holmes himself to shame."

The nurse tilts Castle's forms with the base of his wrist, careful not to contaminate the gloves, reads the information, and says, "Wait, you're that writer?"

"Yea," he replies, feeling pleased now that he's noticed, "I am."

"I don't read crime novels," Marcus returns dismissively. "But I know where I recognize you from…" he pauses to address Kate as he nods toward a rack on the wall. "…take a look through those magazines."

She stands, what else does she have to do while she waits. Near the back, she finds the magazine she appeared in, Castle proudly on the front.

The cover is old, white lines from folds in the paper through the picture of him and the women hired to play cops for the shoot.

"I was bored one night and read that magazine. Saw your picture and figured…what the hell? A book written about you can't be that bad," he says to Kate. "Borrowed it from my mom," he whispers. "It was decent. You...you make a great character."

"It's _very_ loosely based," she replies. "Castle gets all the credit for the character."

"How similar are they, really?" the nurse asks Castle, intrigued.

"Could you concentrate on your suturing?" Castle requests, increasingly annoyed.

He doesn't seem all that excited about the "fan" anymore. For the most part, the room is silent as the nurse finishes up and jabs the vaccine in Castle's arm. Marcus snaps off the gloves and says, "If you need anything, you know where to find me," speaking obviously to Kate instead of his patient.

"What a creep," Castle says once the nurse is gone.

She doesn't argue, she's way too busy thinking, staring at the magazine while she returns it to the rack. It has been sitting there for quite a long time to get so tattered. Then again…it's been almost a year since that article came out to promote his new series of books.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Fine," she answers, allowing her powers of deduction to walk her through her thoughts.

"Why so pensive?" he asks.

Only Castle would word '_Whatchya thinking?'_ that way.

"Did Gina read your first book? Your first Nikki Heat book?" she queries, turning toward him, her eyes last to abandon the once glossy cover to find him.

"Of course."

"If she read that in its entirety, why was she so concerned with the romantic aspects of this new book? It doesn't add up."

"Uhh," he begins, overtly taken off guard by the question. "I don't know."

"The other one was pretty racy," Kate says in detecting mode. "I wouldn't say _explicit_ by any means. But definitely suggestive. Passionate. Sexy."

"You thought it was sexy?" he asks pulled around in all directions now. After all, she's never directly told him what she thinks about those aspects of his writing.

"Sure. Didn't you?" she counters, keeping him on his toes.

"Of course I did. But I wrote it so it was sort of catered to me." He's off balance now in this interrogation, most clearly evidenced by the way he isn't fixating on her admission that it was, indeed, "sexy."

"Is it more explicit this time?"

"No. I don't think so."

"A higher volume of encounters in this one?"

"No. I mean…I'm not sure yet, I'm still writing it. What's your point, Beckett?" he presses.

"Something must have been different to make what she read this time more concerning to her. Something must have changed."

"Nothing comes to mind."

"Maybe you should let me see it. I can figure it out."

"It's a work in progress, so I'm not completely sold on which scenes I'm including. So no, you can't read it…yet. Besides, she said it was the book coupled with other things. My lack of attentiveness, the dream, the totally _innocent_ dream, I might add, where she believes you were mentioned."

Unswayed by his defense, Beckett continues, "Maybe… …maybe it was something else. Maybe the fact that it was the same woman, the same pairing instead of spy who rarely finds the same bed twice. Or something less about sex, less about physical passion. Something far more threatening."

"Like?" he swallows.

"Romance. Emotions. Feelings. She might have thought that indicated some unresolved feelings of intimacy between us. Intimacy beyond two people who are attracted allowing their desires to get the better of them."

The accusation falls and strikes exactly where she hopes. His head is tilted, there's the intrigue, the titillation that sucks him in.

She has enough to prove her point, and she doesn't want to push or gloat (after all, he didn't earlier). When she feels less vulnerable for her accidental lighthouse confession, she says, "You okay, Castle?"

"Fine," he replies, that higher, nervous voice emerging.

"You wanna get out of here?"

His eyes dart around, and she wonders if he forgot they were still in the exam room.

"Yea," he responds like it's obvious, pulling his sunglasses from his pocket and dramatically putting them on with his uninjured arm. "Plenty of time to return to vacation mode."

* * *

On the way home they stop at the pharmacy and pick up the prescription antibiotics and painkillers ordered for him. As soon as he gets in the car with the bag, he holds out the prescription bottle and offers, "Want one?"

"You know it's illegal to sell prescription medicine, right?"

"But I'm not selling it."

"To share it with anyone whose name is not printed on the bottle, also illegal."

"You're not a cop here."

"Pass," she sighs. "Besides, I was thinking about having some wine from your pretty impressive collection. Probably not a good mix."

"True," he says, tucking the prescription into his pocket.

"Wait, you're not taking it?"

"I like wine better. Doesn't hurt that much anyway."

"When that local anesthetic wears off, it probably will."

"Pull in here," he demands, almost too late, and she's forced to take a sharp turn into the narrow parking lot, a single line of cars in front of the building.

She waits in the car while he runs in and purchases a couple of overstuffed lobster rolls for dinner.

He flops back into the car and says, "I know this isn't Maine…but these are really good," before he gives directions back to his place.

She places a friendly bet in her mind that he'll take her out by the pool again, probably make at least two playful suggestions about skinny dipping, and they'll have dinner by candlelight. After all, even though she thinks he doesn't actually want anything serious with her, she knows how he enjoys flirting.

One of the few tank tops she brought is now in ruin, so she changes into another and goes outside to join him. He's set up a little picnic, two chairs and a small checked-cloth covered table facing out toward the ocean. A bottle of wine and two glasses are at the ready. Their paper-wrapped sandwiches are piled there on napkins, no plates or cutlery. There isn't a candle (it wouldn't stay lit with that kind of wind anyway), but there is a battery powered lantern. It's the Castle version of simple, no frills, although the cost of the food and wine alone are probably far beyond what could be considered a 'simple' meal.

She takes her seat and asks how he's feeling, listening to the nonchalant way he tries to play off his injury. It's funny how easily words flow between them in the moments between battles, the sounds of the ocean's waves and breeze harmonizing with their discussion.

The sky changes as the sun surrenders to the moon, bold sweeps of color across the sky. The bottle of wine between them is fantastic, tastes like decadence and summer, and is nearly empty.

The lobster roll is huge, with chunks of seafood coated in mayonnaise, celery and seasoning always threatening to plunge from the roll and onto her pants. She catches him staring at her with an amused look as she tries to wrangle it to get a good bite. It is absolutely impossible to eat a monster lobster roll in a polite or attractive way.

He flips an extra napkin over to her, looking more pleased than disappointed about the general messiness of dinner. "Good, right?" he asks animatedly before he bites off another mouthful.

"Really good," she replies as soon as she's able.

She sees a hint of pain behind his eyes when dinner is through, and realizes that the sizable cut in his arm probably really hurts since the topical has worn off and he's refused the painkillers. She excuses herself and goes into the house, leaving him there.

It feels strange, wandering freely through the rooms of his place like she belongs here. She doesn't. She lives worlds away from him. At home the numbered streets that divide their residences tell that story all too clearly. Still she's oddly comfortable here already, and it hasn't even been a full day.

Her self-preservation instinct warns her that she should resist this comfortable acceptance more, button up, pull back, clam up. She's simply not in the mood to do so.

She fills a gallon bag with ice from the ice dispenser, wraps it in a wad of paper towels since she's not sure where the clean kitchen towels are and doesn't want to spend too much time snooping.

When she heads back down the beach toward him, he doesn't turn. In fact, when she gets there, he is startled since he didn't hear her approach. She gently pushes his wrist until it is flat on the armrest of the Adirondack chair. He looks up at her, features barely visible when he's turned away from the lantern, the moon just catching a flash of blue from his eyes.

Placing the packet of ice on the sore spot, he begins to say, "That's not necessary, I don't…" but the relief of pain pauses his protest as his face relaxes. "…yea that feels pretty good."

She smiles and sits back down.

"Thank you," he adds.

"You can take the pain meds. I'll make sure no one takes advantage of you if you get a little loopy."

"Precisely what I'm afraid of," he jokes, and they share a smile. "I'll pass. A few too many glasses of wine to take that tonight. It's not that bad anyway with the ice on it."

When the night breeze becomes too cold, they gather their things and walk up to the house. It's hard to believe that the summer day that felt so oppressive when she arrived in the morning could cool so much at night.

They stand in the kitchen for one awkward breath until he says, "Anything I can get you?"

"No," she answers before she's even considered the question.

"Picnic doesn't start until two tomorrow. So sleep in. Enjoy yourself."

"Night, Castle," she says, her eyes on his face for just a second too long, long enough to make her feel like she's confessing something, so she hurries off to the guest room bed.

* * *

In the morning he makes her breakfast, pancakes of course, since he thinks it's one of his best early morning offerings. He is a little surprised that the smell of warm blueberries and coffee hasn't wafted up the stairs and under her door and awoken her, but he hasn't heard a thing. It is nearly ten o'clock, and there has not been so much as a creaking floorboard since he woke. It's hard to imagine Beckett sleeping the day away, even on the most relaxing vacation.

He gathers her breakfast on a tray, presenting it as nicely as he can without making it look over the top. For longer than he should, he ponders placing a flower next to the plate. He has a vase of fresh flowers from Jackie "the fixer's" visit the day before. That seems too romantic a gesture, and that isn't his intention. Is it?

Kate has shot him down again and again over the last couple of years, often swiftly and certainly. Sure, some of his proposals were more flippant and playful, but some were genuine. (Truth be told, most were genuine, but he hid them as playful.)

It definitely sounds like she considered coming to see him in the Hamptons before Gina's little ambush. Maybe Beckett's resounding "no" had somehow become a "maybe" and he didn't even notice. If so, did he miss his chance? Did she still consider him a "maybe," or was it back to "no" (or worse "hell no")?

He wants her to have a good time, no, a great time. He wants her to trust him, to relax and let down her guard. It certainly isn't that he doesn't want to have sex with her. He does. The problem is that he really doesn't want to screw this up. This time, with this woman, the consequences seem to somehow matter more. That is still not enough to dissuade him.

Deep down he knows that he'll be pleased if she simply has a nice vacation with him, and they part ways a little closer than they were before.

Then he realizes he's still standing there, tapping the vase and considering whether a flower belongs on her tray. He quietly tells himself not to overcomplicate things and picks up the tray (without the flower). After all, isn't he the one who is supposed to be good at _not_ overcomplicating?

Rick takes the tray upstairs and balances it carefully before he raises a knuckle to rap on the door. No noise inside, he smacks a bit more sharply, and says loudly enough, "Beckett? You in there?"

She doesn't answer still, and he worries a bit. No, he's not worried about murder or a freak accident, but he could very easily imagine her disappearing while he slept to avoid this situation completely. The thought hurts him more than he cares to allow.

He taps on the door one more time and announces, "I'm coming in…but I'm not looking."

As he turns the knob and the latch releases, one perennially hopeful and horny part of his brain imagines her inside, naked save a curve-filled sheet as she wiggles a finger and beacons him toward the bed. He knows that's far beyond crazy, but he considers the scene for his next Heat book anyway.

That side of him, and pretty much all sides of him, are disappointed when he finds the bed neatly made and Beckett nowhere in sight.

He walks over by the window as movement outside catches his eye. As he approaches, he sees her bags still on the chair near the bed, and feels buoyant as he realizes she has not gone yet.

When he looks out the window, though, he has a partial view of the pool. He sees her at the far end as she dives into the water, swimming a decent lap from one side to the next and back again.

She gets out of that far end again, and he can't help but stare. She's wearing one of his navy tee shirts, the very thought is more exciting than it should be. The shirt hangs down near her knees, especially since it's soaked. Had he written this, he would have written her standing there in a slinky swimsuit, but somehow this is so much hotter even though she's quite covered. What is it about a beautiful woman wearing his clothes?

He watches while she surveys the gated area around the pool. He's perplexed, wondering what scandalous thing she may do that she's so worried about onlookers. Part of him feels like he should look away and give her the privacy she seeks, but he can't seem to force his head to turn.

Suddenly she takes several very long, very decisive steps back away from the pool, and smiles the most enthusiastic, joyful smile he has ever seen from her. Her arms move up into a runner's position and she takes off, dashing at what is likely her most breakneck speed toward the pool as she jumps high into the air, tucking her knees to her chest, and she cannonballs into the water.

He covers his face to hide the responding laugh that bursts from him. It is one of the most memorable things he thinks he will ever see, something so filled with happiness and innocent fun, from the person who actively shields herself from happiness. Innocence is hard to find surrounding Beckett, as she's immersed in murder after murder, vile crime and destruction, nearly every day.

When she rises from the pool, her grin seems permanent, at least he wishes it could be. Walking over to the chair, she finds a towel and begins to dry. Her smile has softened, but she still appears relatively at ease with the world.

If she chooses to leave soon, he'll still count himself lucky that he got to see her this way.

He hurries downstairs with the food, feeling a little guilty for watching her out there even though she was outside in the open.

"Castle!" she says, alarmed like she did not know he might be there. She poorly covers her nerves and adds, "I hope you don't mind. I woke up and the pool looked inviting and—"

"Anything you want," he replies, trying to put her at ease, "Make yourself at home."

"I borrowed one of your shirts to wear. It was folded by the washer. Hope that's alright. I don't have a suit."

"Take it off right now and return it to its rightful owner," he pretends to scold, raising his eyebrows and shoving this interaction more comfortably into their normal banter and flirtation. "Or you could sit down and eat your pancakes?"

"I'll get water all over your floor."

He nods for her to follow him to the closet and pulls out a fresh, fluffy robe and a dry towel. When he hands them to her, her chilly, pruned fingers touch his, and he wonders what she would do if he didn't pull away. _Shoot me if she had her gun_, he thinks.

Pointing toward the powder room, he leaves her there to change.

The two settle at the small table in the breakfast nook, Beckett in the fluffy robe and he in his pajamas. It feels like she belongs in that place across the table. He pays enough attention to continue the conversation, but can't stop imagining her in that same white robe in different situations. There's probably absolutely nothing on underneath, nothing between her smooth skin and the soft, furry robe that surrounds her.

He wonders what it would be like to share breakfast here on a stormy morning, or at his apartment, or in his bed. What would it be like to reach for her, to pull open the tie that holds the robe closed and slide his hands over the warm skin beneath?

She became a fixture in his daily "work" life a while ago, but now she seems to fit too easily into the rest of his life, the personal parts, and he does not mind in the least.

He finds his romantic side eager to walk into the party in a few short hours with her on his arm.

Castle is now certain that he needs to make sure she stays longer than two or three days. How long did she say she had off before she had to return to the 12th? He sets his sights on convincing her to stay at least a week. The thought of this ending any sooner than that is unacceptable to him.

* * *

Next up- The Picnic Fundraiser


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N-This chapter is a bit longer, but I didn't want to separate the picnic into two parts. I am so excited for this story that I have the next 4 chapters outlined in detail, so I hope to keep a decent pace. Thanks, again, for all of the interest and support. xx JQK**

* * *

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 3

Kate asks Jackie to take her to town between breakfast and the party to pick up a few things. Jackie doesn't hide her fondness for Kate, although the pair have only exchanged a few words, and she wonders what in the hell Castle says about her when she's not there to have garnered Jackie's steadfast approval. As Beckett runs her errands, she feels a sense of anticipation, much like she would before a first date. Of course this isn't a date, obviously.

As Kate dresses to go the party, that sense of nervous excitement does not fade. She looks at herself in the mirror, and once again feels like she doesn't belong here. This isn't the kind of thing she wears, light and flowy, summery and strapless, with a tight bodice and a skirt that would probably twirl if she were to spin. She wonders if he'll laugh when he sees her. The entire look is a bit ridiculous.

Trying to avoid the feeling of a grand entrance, she hurries down the stairs unannounced and says, "You ready or what, Castle?" in her most matter-of-fact voice.

She doesn't see him at first, but when she turns to tell him their car is waiting, she finds him. He's standing in the next room, looking at her, silent and slightly slack jawed. "You look especially breathtaking today," he compliments.

She feels a slight shiver as he comes closer. He's dressed as wealthy men dress for these sorts of things, playing casual without really being casual. He's wearing a dark, short sleeved dress shirt, long pants, and dress shoes. His jacket is draped over his arm, but given the heat it seems cruel to expect him to wear it. This isn't a typical 'shorts and sneakers' kind of picnic.

"You look pretty good yourself," she answers.

He offers her his arm and she accepts it, escorting her out the door. When the heat attacks them as they leave the air-conditioned building, he turns back inside and leaves his jacket before hurrying back to her.

The town car, sent by the organization throwing the fundraiser, awaits them, and they get into the back seat, both in their own spots but slightly toward the center. She feels his eyes on her when she looks out the window, wishes just the feeling of him looking at her didn't provoke such an array and magnitude of reactions.

The drive is short, and when they arrive he hurries over to her side of the car to offer a hand as she steps out. This kind of old school chivalry is not necessary, she can get out of a car just fine on her own, and yet she accepts his hand like she would if this whole thing were an undercover operation and she didn't want to raise suspicions. Not so much as a scowl of disapproval is evident on her face.

They aren't cop and consultant here. They are civilians without badges, guns, or keyboards. People won't die if they fail today, murderers won't go free. No matter what they do, good people will have more money to do great things. The lack of a defined goal makes her feel a bit untethered.

They walk through the multi-colored banner lined paths with other attendees, moving in the direction of the music, families laughing and talking all around them. Kids are darting under the banners to play in the open sandy grass on the other side. All ages are represented, from the tiniest infants to people nearing a century of residence on this earth. Many have assistive devices and many do not. And what they all share is this common cause.

As silly as she felt at first in that dress, Jackie did not steer her wrong. Kate blends well with those around her.

Beckett has not been in such a large group for a merry reason in a very long time. The last organized event she went to that was this packed was probably a funeral. She's used to crowds, Manhattan is full of them, but the vibrations from those around her are at a completely different frequency than she's accustomed to. The happiness and laughter surrounding her are infectious.

There are many people who know him here, and he introduces her to each of them, always proudly, but without an identifier labeling their relationship. Still, the way he looks at her with each introduction leaves those she meets with a clear impression that the relationship is more than platonic.

The dozens of introductions that follow are a bit exhausting, some conversations are tedious and endless, while most others are pleasant enough. She infers from the discussions she hears that Castle has probably been a significant supporter of this group for quite some time. It makes sense in her mind, since she knows how devoted he is to his own child, and he would want opportunities like this for Alexis, had she been born in need of them. Kate has always tried to behave like the devoted father role has no allure for her, but that is an act.

While near the food pavilion, Castle is called away by one of the event planners, telling Kate he'll be gone only a minute. It seems mere seconds before she is joined by someone new. "Anthony Schuylar," the man says, his hand prodding forward to shake hers in a way that feels almost aggressive.

"Umm, hi?" she says, accepting the handshake and somewhat hesitantly replying, "Kate."

"I'm a friend of Ricky's from back in college."

"Oh. He'll be back in just a second." She hopes she doesn't have to attempt small talk with him until Castle returns.

The man does expect small talk, but also provides nearly all of the talking. He manages to drop hints of his success in only the first minute of conversation. He mentions portfolios and investments, buyouts and stock prognostication. He tells her that a man in his line of work who can survive the recent downturn can survive whatever the world of finance has to throw his way.

_Like a financial cockroach_, she ponders silently, _the last creature left after the fallout._

All of these things that he's so proud of have relatively little interest to her, especially when they are so clearly being shared in such an obnoxiously boasting manner.

Anthony is tall, tanned, likely considered handsome by most, with a broad, straight-toothed smile. He's wearing a perfectly tailored full suit instead of the slightly more casual attire Castle and most other men at the event have chosen. In such a well-fitted suit, it is easy to see he's muscled and lean, and she imagines he is the type to work out in front of a mirror, fonder of his own reflection than the health benefits or sense of satisfaction from a good training session.

He's also a bit inebriated even though the party has just begun.

"So...I gotta know...how'd Ricky land you?" he asks. "Beautiful, elegant, brainy…" Just as she is about to inform him that she hasn't said enough for him to assess her intellect or degree of elegance, and that she and Castle are _not_ romantically involved, he adds, "I mean, you are way out of his league." He looks her over in a way that makes her skin crawl.

"I wouldn't say that—" she argues until interrupted, crossing her arms.

"He's a nice guy, fun," Anthony adds, "kinda the class clown. Popular with the ladies, although his attention span is kinda short. Always has been. The leopard doesn't change his spots, know what I mean? I guess fun is all fine and good…for a while."

"He's pretty successful for a clown, don't you think? Built a nice life for himself and his family."

"Pretty much by playing pretend, right? Isn't that what writing is?" Schuylar seems to think she will espouse his brilliance and fall over herself in agreement.

"I think it's a little more involved than that," she dryly replies.

"There's more to life than having fun, though. I love the guy, seriously, but Rick…he's the frat house prankster, and he'll always be—"

"That 'frat house prankster' has saved my life. Sometimes he doesn't take things seriously, but when it counts, he does. He's talented, and he's loyal, and sometimes really helpful on a case. And when shit goes down, there is no one I trust to have my back more than him. Maybe you need to look beyond the leopard's spots to figure out who he really is." Her tone is terse and certain, nearing overt annoyance.

Schuylar offers a knowing smirk and nod, and she wonders if her devotion is being tested for Castle's benefit, or if the guy is assessing his chances with her for more selfish reasons.

"There he is," Kate says as she sees Castle and heads immediately in his direction.

Yes, she has at times compared Castle to a child on a sugar rush, but he can also be sweet and thoughtful, brilliant (although she wouldn't use that word to his face), and she's been able to see past the playful exterior to the complexities below. There is a great deal beneath the exterior that he shows her more willingly as their partnership grows.

There is an uneasy feeling she can't shake, something she cannot ignore. She feels protective of Castle, annoyed with Schuylar's take on a man who has been putting a lot of effort into showing her a few days of fun. He is also the man who will help her find those responsible for her mother's death, she is convinced of that. That particular quest isn't one suited to a clown or prankster.

She notes a genuine anger, beside the general irritation, that someone would talk about her partner that way. Partners often form bonds, she's been a cop long enough to know that, and she supposes their arrangement is no different. Her protectiveness, however, is more than the typical concern for a colleague's safety. It's something deeper, more visceral.

She nearly runs into Castle, who holds his arms out to the side to avoid spilling vibrantly colored sno-cones on her. He presents them and says, "Choose…but choose wisely. For the right sno-cone will bring you…" he pauses when he sees the annoyed look on her face. "You alright?" he presses. "Yesterday you mentioned the sno-cones you had when you were a kid, so I thought you might want one. Mind you, these are adult flavored."

"Thank you," she replies, taking one that glows a nuclear green, "that was very thoughtful."

"Hey," Castle nods past her at Schuylar, who is making his way over but pausing to talk to people as he approaches.

"I met your friend Schuylar."

"Oh," Castle says knowingly. "I'm sure the two of you hit it off," he sarcastically adds.

She sees Schuylar getting closer, and Beckett whispers to Castle, "We're a thing."

"What?"

"You and me. We're together. Got it?"

"That's the line you use on all the guys, isn't it?"

She glares in response, and smirks as she shakes her head.

"If I would have known all it would take was a sno-cone, I would have picked one up a long time ago," he teases.

She rolls her eyes out of habit, but is hurried because they don't have much time before Schuylar joins them. "He's a jerk. He says he's your friend, but—"

"Oh. Got it. You told him we're together so he thinks you're unavailable?"

"That wasn't why," she argues, glowering for a second at his assumption. "And I didn't _tell _him. He assumed and I didn't correct the assumption. It's not the same thing."

Castle's all too expressive face asks _why then? w_ithout a single spoken word.

"Hey man," Schuylar says as he finally nears.

Castle smiles, his hand sliding down Beckett's arm until their fingers are laced in their non sno-cone bearing hands.

* * *

"Been too long!" Schuylar smacks Castle on the shoulder in one of those amicable ways, as his form of greeting, and points to the bandage on Castle's arm. "What happened there? Jealous husband finally get you?"

Rick looks down at his bandage, less than eager to tell anyone he tripped, least of all Tony Schuylar.

"Castle," Kate preemptively strikes. With a whisper just loud enough for Schuylar to hear, she says, "You know we can't talk about that case. The investigation is ongoing, and—"

"You're still doing the police thing?" Schuylar interrupts, somewhat impressed.

"Yea. My research has been essential to crafting a good detective story," Castle responds. "Largely thanks to Detective Beckett here."

"Sounds dangerous."

Kate nods toward Castle's injury. "He's lucky he moved when he did, or he probably wouldn't be here to talk about it today."

Sometimes that woman says the hottest things.

"Wow," Schuylar admires. "Really out there in the trenches."

Beckett is pulled into a conversation with a prosecutor visiting from the city, one who is a fan of Castle's writing and has been dying to meet there the real life Nikki Heat.

"That's quite a ball of fire you got there," Schuylar starts once Kate has left Rick's side.

"Right?" Castle grins.

"She really seems into you."

"Oh yea?"

"She about tore my head off for calling you the 'frat house prankster.'"

"Did she?" Rick asks, not at all annoyed by his friend's words because he loves the idea of Kate defending him. Especially because his lack of seriousness has often annoyed the hell out of her. "What-uh-what did she say...exactly?"

"Bunch of crap about you having her back. Cop talk. Nothing interesting," Schuylar dismisses because that's not really what he wants to know about. "So she's the detective? The one you're writing about?"

"Yea."

"Those are the best," Schuylar says in a salacious way.

"What?"

"Blue collar girls. Hungry, amiright? They get a taste of the finer things money can buy and they'll do anything to keep it…so willing to make a man happy in _all_ the right ways. And that there...that is a Grade-A piece of ass you've got, my friend. Bet you enjoy toying with that one."

"Knock it off, okay?" Rick counters, trying to sound friendly but sincere.

Schuylar is looking past Rick and eyeing up Beckett. "Damn, just looking at her—"

"I _asked_ you to stop," Castle reminds, facing Schuylar, demanding compliance, sno-cone dropped in the grass and forgotten. "Now I'm _telling_ you."

"You learn all this in Cop 101?" Schuylar chuckles at first, a bit drunk and assuming Castle is messing around. When he sees the look on Rick's face, Schuylar quiets. "Jesus, Rick, sorry. You that serious about this one? Miss NYPD? Really?"

Castle looks away for a moment, the question reminding him that he has some pretty serious feelings about Beckett that he hasn't really sorted through just yet, and he's certainly not going to discuss them with this guy.

Schuylar huffs and shakes his head. "Buddy, she has you all tied up. That woman must _really_ know how to suck cock."

Castle lunges forward angrily, moving the other man back against the pavilion column behind him. "I'm not playing around. Don't talk about her like that."

He's standing completely in the other man's face, and feels a desire to attack that he very rarely feels. Rick isn't a violent person at heart, but clearly this is a sensitive spot he wasn't even aware he had.

"Everything okay, Castle?" he hears Beckett from behind him and glances at her over his shoulder.

"Yea, everything's fine," he replies with a parting glare before he goes to her.

* * *

They hurry away, putting plenty of space between Castle and the man who had so infuriated him. Finding him on the verge of a fight was a rare occurrence indeed. "You alright?" she asks.

"Fine," he answers, his irritation not yet dissipated.

"What happened back there? You take a lot of ribbing from the guys at the station, and I've never seen you jump," she inquires.

"You were right, he's a jerk."

Beckett knows Castle too well, knows his reactions, and his soft spots, and she is certain he is lying. Of course she also overheard part of the conversation, enough to know exactly what lit Castle's fuse.

"You're bleeding through your bandage," she comments, pointing at his injured arm, taking his elbow and leading him toward the medical tent.

Once inside, they're alone except for a nurse in the corner wrapping a sprained ankle. Beckett sits him down and puts her folding chair directly in front of his before she grabs a few supplies from the table. She sits down, her knee between his, in a way that's effortlessly intimate.

She hands him her half eaten sno-cone and nods that he can have some. "That one is really good. Try it," she offers. She opens the old bandage and removes it, checking the stitches. She carefully sprays cleanser over it to prevent infection and catches the runoff on some paper towels.

"Hurt?" she asks.

He shakes his head, but stares at the evidence of her concern for him.

"He annoyed you enough to make you burst at the seams?" she jokes.

Castle half-smirks, but still seems lost in thought.

She winces a little as she looks at the aggravated areas along the cut. "It doesn't matter to me what a guy like that thinks or says about…_you…_or me, or anyone else. He's an ass. His opinion doesn't matter."

"Yea. Says the woman who implicitly lied about the nature of our relationship because of what he said."

"Fair point."

She heard part of the exchange, enough of Schuylar's words. From Castle's lack of bravado or eye contact, the absence of forthcoming details, and his softened mood, she is nearly certain she heard correctly.

He watches every move of her hands so intently she feels it. She is gentle with him, showing care as she re-covers and wraps his arm, trying to convey compassion through her actions. Castle calms as she tends to him, eventually taking a few bites of her quickly melting icy treat.

She doesn't need anyone to stand up for her, she can stand up for herself. But the thought of him going to bat for her, defending her honor, in a way, is touching anyway. Especially because Castle becomes infuriated so rarely.

She reaches for him, takes his hand in hers affectionately, and she says, "You're a good man, Castle, willing to take a stand for what you think is right. But be careful…unless you want to go back and see your favorite nurse to have this re-stitched."

He smiles, wrapping his fingers around her hand. Her exposed knee is still nestled between his, their eyes locked. If she were honest with herself, she would admit she's tempted to seek more closeness with him. That's what she wants right now, Castle closer to her. That's about all she can admit to herself for the time being.

As she's tempted to act on her impulses, she sees a look in his eye that tells her a confession is welling in his chest and it stalls her.

"He can't see us in here," Castle notes, which was certainly not the confession she had imagined. He rubs the soft area between her thumb and forefinger. "You don't have to keep up the act."

She shrugs, but does not immediately withdraw, her eyes dropping more timidly. As tough as she is, this thing with him scares her a bit. She squeezes his hand reassuringly before letting go, then puts the finishing touches on his bandage.

* * *

Castle is very popular at this event, so many people stopping and chatting. He vacillates between a sense of pride over the number of fans who've approached, and the desire to enjoy Kate's company uninterrupted. Many of those who approach are gorgeous women who seem less than thrilled to see them together. Typically he'd love having their attention.

The pair peruse the silent auction items, and Kate notes, "She's beautiful, Castle," when his latest fan is gone.

"You want her number?" he jokes.

"I meant...for _you_. She seems interested."

"You trying to get rid of me already? How long have we been dating, a few hours?" he teases at a whisper.

"I didn't think things through…when I let that guy assume we're together. Want to pretend to break up, check out your options?" Even as she says it, he sees a hint of jealousy that he truly revels in.

"We can't call it quits at the first sign of trouble," he pretends to be appalled.

"_You_...are calling a pretty impressive line-up of attractive, interested women a 'sign of trouble'? Don't you mean 'fortunate turn of events'? Or maybe 'jackpot'?"

"Fight for what we have, Beckett!"

Trying to be serious, still, she says, "I just want you to know that I wasn't trying to get in the way."

"I kinda like it when you're in the way," he replies with easy honesty.

* * *

Beckett walks with him out toward some games, her arm looped under his. The thing she doesn't mention to Castle is that she's not really the handholding, arm-in-arm type of date, even when she's actually with someone. Embracing her vacationing spirit yet again, she allows herself to live this life that's so far from her reality, unconcerned if people believe they're together. It feels like she spends a lot of her time denying any such connection between them, so it's odd to allow it.

They watch a few events for the kids, slightly modified races, trivia, and art contests. He knows some of the families, and she wonders how involved he's been with this and why he hasn't mentioned it before. It's hard not to be a little pulled in by the way he treats these kids, making them laugh, or high-fiving them, sometimes for their accomplishments and sometimes to encourage the discouraged.

At dinner they sit across from a few of his friends in the dining pavilion, people who seem less interested in sabotaging him or instigating trouble. She likes this group much more, finding herself laughing and joking, talking about her adventures with Castle. They've been partners long enough that they've amassed stories much like a couple would.

When the meal ends, a married couple makes Beckett promise to bring Castle and join them for an evening the next weekend. She says she will, if she's still in town. As she responds to the invitation, she sees Castle's enthusiasm droop as he's reminded of her upcoming departure.

They continue on to some carnival games. Whether tossing darts at balloons, throwing rings around pegs, or pitching to knock down pyramids of bottles, it is far more fun than it should be, their competitive spirits making them invest real effort in each game. Even as they try to be the best, she notices her cheeks are sore from the smile on her face that doesn't want to fade.

She finds herself once again talking to him more about her past than she's spoken of in ages. Many of the memories she doesn't usually allow to surface even when she's on her own, and now she's sharing them with Castle. She's not even certain why she's so comfortable telling him these things, but she is. They aren't exactly scandalous or exciting stories she shares, no glimpses into her psyche or anything so interesting, but still he hangs on her words as she remembers.

* * *

Shortly before the fireworks begin, those who haven't claimed a spot to watch make their way to the remaining open places. Kate and Rick have yet to leave the games. He feels like he's been walking around in a partial haze. He is enjoying this closeness, the implication of romance between them. It isn't like she's hanging on him or vice versa. Most touches are subtle, but the closeness between them cannot be ignored.

The music halts to make some announcements, then blares again, and the booths shut down so everyone can enjoy the show. He grabs her hand and hurries toward the beach, swerving through the crowd for the vantage point he wants. They end up right on the edge of the best area with scarcely enough room to stand. He backs up against a battleship grey cinder block storage shed, making as much room for her as he can, and she wedges herself between him and the rest of the crowd.

The mass of people isn't still, almost like the crowd itself is a living being, breathing, shifting and moving as others find places and families adjust to give the best views to their children. As the fireworks finally begin, he laments not finding her a better lookout. The space they have seems to shrink as more people file in, and she leans back against him, her shoulder against his chest, and suddenly he thinks he's found the best spot on the entire beach, or perhaps the island, the state, the continent.

The first few bursts in the sky are solo, patient pops of color that swell and speed down to earth as they crackle out. He learns the color of each by watching the light as shown on Kate's face, unable to pry his eyes away.

The family in front of them pushes her back inadvertently, the linebacker-sized teenaged son bumping into Beckett. Castle puts his hand on her side to stop her from falling, and just leaves it there as the awkward young man offers his apologies. In spite of the chaos, she seems happy.

She hasn't readjusted, pulled away, or scowled to remind him to remove his hand from her. She's so near he could almost rest his chin on her bare shoulder. Castle tries not to move too much, not to inhale too sharply or do anything that may make her withdraw.

They are so close there in the dark, alone although surrounded by people. He wonders if she feels this closeness, if her insides are as scrambled and electrified with excitement as his are just because of their proximity.

His focus is still on her face, as best as he can see it. Mostly he catches those flickering stills created by each set of pyrotechnics, dreaming of wrapping his arms fully around her and holding her body against his.

His draw toward her has never been stronger. Perhaps it's due to the day of pretending (that wasn't even really necessary), or the romance of the two of them locked together in the dark beneath a light show. Or it could be the way they looked out for each other, the mutual protectiveness that each exhibited.

As the flashes and pops of the show escalate, coming brighter, faster and bigger, he knows the finale is upon them, and this moment will soon be over. When it is done, he'll have no acceptable cover to excuse his touches, so he closes his eyes and soaks up the feeling.

Sadly the display is over too quickly, stadium and street lamps lighting up and burning at full capacity for the safety of the crowd.

She turns to him with a grin nearly as full of joy as the one that accompanied her secret cannonball into the pool, but this one tinged with mischief. "Come on. We can beat the crowd," she suggests. "Hang on so we don't get separated." She takes his hand and jogs across the beach, darting through the crowd with him in tow, hurrying to the place where they're supposed to meet their driver. When they dive into the back seat of the car, she's still smiling, now breathless, a few strands of hair wisping away from the rest.

As beautiful as she is, he wrestles with the injustice of the world, wondering why she doesn't deserve to look this happy more often. It's taken two years to make her smile so openly. When this vacation is over, will it take two more? Longer?

Why shouldn't Beckett be afforded joy, not just this one time, but weekly, even daily if he has any say in the matter, certainly more than these rare circumstances. Life dealt her a low blow with the death of her mother, but if that had not been enough, it seems she pays for that injustice and the injustices done to others by offering up her chance at happiness.

Their ride back to the house is almost entirely silent. They are both a little tired, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the car even though there's room to spread out.

Kate follows him into his second home, leaning against the wall near the alarm pad while he punches in the code. "I had fun today," she mentions, stretching the tiredness from her muscles slightly as she removes her shoes and her toes wiggle in response to the freedom.

He sidesteps until he's in front of her. "I've never heard you talk so much about her…at least…not the happy memories."

"Who?" Kate asks, tilting her head as she tries to decipher his meaning.

The chain that keeps her mother's ring near her heart catches his attention. There's a place just below her collarbone where the necklace doesn't quite touch her skin, and before caution forbids him, his finger plucks that piece of the chain and lifts it away. She tenses at the closeness for only a second before she relaxes again. He wonders if one day he'll be able to touch her without the preceding tension that makes her seem so guarded from him, or if she'll always be leery initially of any contact.

He slides his fingers down until they're pinching the ring, and he turns it between his thumb and forefinger. The pair are so close that her toes are positioned between his feet.

She understands his meaning as he focuses on the memento of her mother. "Did I talk about her a lot?"

"I wouldn't say 'a lot.' More than usual. I enjoyed it. But it doesn't seem fair…all of those memories of growing up, the recollections of moments spent that should be filled with joy and love, flashbacks to a simpler time, are all tainted, aren't they?"

She swallows audibly. "In a way."

"I would have liked to have met her."

"I would have liked that, too."

"Think I would have irritated her as much as I irritate you?" He smirks.

"My Dad and I are…this will come as a surprise…kind of serious."

"You? No!" he plays along.

He watches her smile, and feels her claim another piece of his heart.

"Anyway, she would have probably loved this whole vacation thing. The fact that you're trying to make me have fun...even though I haven't exactly made it easy." Her eyes meet his, both happy and tear-lined, and he feels the openness, the tremendous force of her vulnerability upon him. She reels it back in slightly, and adds, "Don't get me wrong, she believed in hard work. But she also believed in knowing when to have a good time. Apparently I only inherited the first half. Sometimes you…"

She stalls, and he's willing to do absolutely anything to coax the words into the world. "I what?"

"You…make me wish I had more days like today."

"So let's have more days like today. What's stopping you?" He feels her begin to protest, and he already knows she'll say she can't, or it won't work, or something equally dismal, so he continues, "I already have tomorrow planned. You're going to love it."

"You don't have to plan elaborate—"

"I know I don't _have_ to. I want to. And it's not elaborate. 'Elaborate' isn't really your thing."

He sees the wheels turning in her mind, again awaiting the birth of her thoughts, and she finally says, "You know what else my mother would have loved?"

"Tell me." He leans ever so slightly closer, the ring still in his fingers because touching it makes him feel like they're connected.

"The way you defended me today. I'm the one who let Schuyler think we were together, so you could have gloated, bragged about your conquest...I'm not saying you're the type to kiss and tell, but you know how to say just enough to make it look good. And instead, you were ready to throw down. It wasn't because he said something about you...it was because of what he said about me. Right?"

"You heard that?" he asked.

"Yup. What I don't get…is why did it bug you. He had obviously been drinking. It isn't like the two of you are close. You think in my line of work, I haven't heard stuff like that and much, much worse?"

Castle gently places the ring back against her chest, the back of his finger scarcely brushing her skin, but certainly taking no liberties.

"Because you deserve better. Just because that's how things are...doesn't mean it's how they should be." He feels nagging questions in his mind, and he allows them. "The things I say...sometimes...well, pretty much every day since we've met...the subtle and _not so subtle_ comments I make. Do they bother you? Make you feel demeaned or-"

"Castle," she laughs, "When have you ever known me to sit back and not stick up for myself when I need to? Do I strike you as someone to let things go on if they're bothering me?"

"No."

"Apart from occasionally telling you 'Not right now'...have I ever really tried to stop you? Have I ever reported you to Legal or tried to have you removed based on those types of comments?"

"You've tried to have me removed for other reasons," he chuckles.

"Yes," she allows. "But not for a while now. You've never spoken to me in a way that makes me feel that disrespected. If you did, I'd destroy you," she says, accompanied by a smile.

He breathes a laugh, her words not doing anything to silence the _kiss her! _thought that is thundering through his head.

He leans closer only the slightest, his stare attempting to convey even a shred of his admiration. The day has culminated here, built upon the closeness they've shared and the fact that it's all but begun to feel normal, the openness she's shown, the way he's seen her smile...it has brought them to this moment. The urge to kiss her here and now, just once in his life, becomes the only command he can hear.

When has he ever been so scared of a woman he's interested in?

There is no doubt of his intention, he hopes, because he doesn't want to take her by surprise. And that tension he awaits, the moment where she tightens up before she relaxes, does not come. She tilts her chin up, those gorgeous, full, bow-shaped lips that he has stared at for so long he could draw them from memory (if he had any artistic talent), are right before him like she's offering them up. He accepts the risk inherent, the chance that she'll pulverize his balls (or his heart) for even trying.

As they nearly meet, so close he can feel her breath mingling with his, alarm bells begin to sound. Literally. Kate's eyes are confused, trying to decipher if this is a joke or a sign from above. She doesn't run, but turns away, and he can almost hear her thinking _what in the hell am I doing? _like a spell has been broken.

He realizes the source of the alarm and finds his phone in his pocket. Her stare, and his, go to the display, and he sees Gina's image, and feels the impact that has on Beckett and this shared moment. "I changed the ringtone after she left…alarms…like warning bells? Get it?" he tries. He's never found his own sense of humor irritating before.

"I'll let you take that. You probably have a lot to talk about," she says with acceptance he doesn't want her to have. As she slips away, it feels as if she's been torn from him so cruelly it hurts. She pauses, turning slightly over her shoulder, and adds, "I had a great day today. Schuylar or Gina or anything else that comes my way won't change that. Thank you." He swears he hears the slightest crack in her voice. She offers a fleeting smile before she commits to leaving.

He fears the chance for a something more with her may become a series of near-misses that never quite hit. They were so close (so, so close) just a second ago, and now she's walking away. He should be kissing her right now. That is what was _supposed _to happen. She should be in his arms, not leaving him to talk to Gina. Before she's gone too far, he says with certain authority, "Beckett, wait." She slows but doesn't stop, and he requests, "Please."

Kate turns back to him, crossing her arms loosely in front of her in a way that signals self-protection. Her calm expression feels forced, and he fears she's hurt and will pull away, and he'll have to start winning her all over again.

He says the thing he wishes he'd said a month ago. Something that might have changed things for them. "I don't want Gina. I didn't want Gina when I had her. I'm not in love with her."

"You know what you _don't_ want, Castle. That's a good start."

"I know what I want, too…" he argues, holding her stare. "Do you?"

She waits with frightening patience before she takes three decisive steps closer. He flinches just the slightest because her approach has taken him off guard. Her forward momentum doesn't stop when her feet do, and she continues coming closer. Her fingers move up the back of his neck and into his hair, and she brings her lips to his as she guides his mouth to hers.

A string of confused thoughts flash furiously like those finale fireworks did earlier, but his thoughts are quickly drown in the sensation of her kissing him. This isn't a polite goodnight kiss.

It is sheer heaven, and he just wants to hang on to her, to this place in time. The feeling of her, the taste, the experience, makes his prior dreams of this moment seem weak and paltry. His free hand gravitates almost immediately to her waist (the other still clenching his phone). Her lips only barely part, and he feels the slightest whisper of her tongue against the point at the center of his upper lip, the touch so scant it almost doesn't exist at all. Then the alarm bells sound again, and she immediately withdraws. He tips forward a bit when she's no longer against him.

As she backs away, he wants to stop his phone from making that sound, no matter what the cost. He doesn't really care if the damn thing silences because he turns it off or because he drops it on the ground and stomps the life out of it, but he wants to do whatever it takes to cease the distraction.

"I'll let you take care of that," she says as she heads toward the stairs, once again putting a chasm between them.

"I can call her back tomorrow," he offers. "Or next year."

She smiles softly in response, but quickly slips up the stairs to her room. He battles the need to follow her, saying one final, "Kate…?" to try to encourage her return, but there is no response. It is hard to feel so excited, to live a moment so full of potential, only to have that potential ripped right out from under him. He is pretty certain it won't happen again, that she'll consider it a lapse in otherwise sound judgment. His chance with her has probably come and gone. In fact, he can almost picture her in her room, already regretting even that brief kiss. His phone is still ringing, and he says to himself, "Nice going, Rick...way to warn her to run for safety."

He answers the phone, but just because he wants to get this over with so, universe willing, some day _if_ he has a chance with Beckett again, he won't repeat this interruption. Sadly a dead body dropping would have put less of a damper on things. He also notes to himself to change the damn ringtone the minute this call is over.

Gina's call is official, publishing business, and deadlines. Although it is late, they've often conducted business at late hours because they are both awake and available.

After a few exchanges and just before the end of the call, he says, "I'm sorry for how things ended. I didn't intend to hurt you or lead you on."

"Rick…" she drags out, with a long, thoughtful pause giving him time to wonder what was next. "We aren't in love. I wasn't even back home yet before I realized that. I'm glad we didn't waste any more of each other's time."

"Yea."

"You know I received more than one text tonight...about you and your _girlfriend _at the summer fundraiser-"

"Gina, look," he begins to explain, "it isn't what you think."

"Shut it!" she chuckles. "I'm so _tired_ of you saying that. Some people were still under the impression that I'd be joining you tonight, so they were a little surprised to see someone else. There were pictures with the texts, Rick. Do you really feel the need to deny it? All I'm asking you to do is admit it… Tell me I'm not crazy. You acted like I was paranoid, completely insane for thinking there was something between you two."

He shakes his head no (although she cannot see that over the phone), poised to stand firm in his default denial position. His heart thumps more heavily and reminds him of the day. His hand remembers the feeling of hers, his chest recollects the sensation of her leaning on him, his lips remember the tingle in her kiss. "I shouldn't have acted like you were crazy," he admits. "But this whole thing...I think it's mostly one-sided."

"One-sided?"

"Yea. I'm pretty sure." He tries to joke, "That should make you feel a little better…"

"What's going on with you lately? Have you misplaced your over-inflated ego?"

"Maybe."

"I did you a favor when I texted her."

"You did me a $4,000 favor? That's the damage to her bike, by the way."

"Small price to pay if things work out," she reminds.

As soon as the call ends, he changes the ringtone (and deletes the option entirely), and a few seconds later a picture comes through.

It must be from one of the texts Gina's friends sent her during the party. He sees himself, watching Kate while she played a ring toss game. Even there, doing nothing more than playing a game, he is staring at her, his expression thoroughly love-struck. He knows how he feels when he looks at her, but had no idea it would be that obvious from the outside.

A second picture comes through along with a text from Gina that says, "Still think I'm crazy?"

In this picture, he's filling out a card to enter a bid for one of the silent auction items. Kate is sitting beside him, chin resting on her hand as she gazes at him with the most adoring look he's ever seen on her face. Damn how he wishes he would have turned to her at that exact moment, been the recipient of such a beautiful stare in real time.

One final shot is of the two of them, arm-in-arm, each smiling and leaning toward the other. He knows the pics were meant to call him out, but he's happy to have images from the day. He downloads them and finds himself staring at her photo and replaying moments they shared. His thumb touches his lips as he thinks, and optimism rises as he realizes, "Oh my god! She kissed me." It was all over so fast he barely had a chance to respond to her when it happened, and the screaming 'Gina Alarm' kind of doused the mood a bit. But it happened, that much was undeniable, and she was definitely the one to take the leap.

He ponders what has happened, as well as what he hopes for, tilts his head and says, "Now how do I convince her to do it again?"

* * *

Kate is still standing against her bedroom door when she hears him walk down the hall. His steps halt nearby, and she wonders what she's going to do if he knocks or calls for her. Should she pretend to be asleep? Showering? Should she..._answer_?

She's not sure she has the willpower to turn him away if she opens the door. She kissed him…that was on her. Sure he'd gotten close and it seemed like things were heading in that direction, but that phone call that interrupted them gave her an escape route on a silver platter, and yet she went back for the kiss. Why? She doubts he'll conveniently forget it happened by dawn (and she isn't quite sure she really wants him to).

She's relatively certain she's only kept his attention this long because she _hasn't _slept with him, and once she does, once he's had her, the spell will probably be broken. What happens after that? Will his interest in "research" disappear and she'll lose the partner she trusts most? What are the chances that this...she and Castle...could be something more?

After everything that happened with Dick Coonan, she admitted to Castle that she wanted him around, and even that confession was difficult to make. She assumes he has no idea how much she wants him to stay, how entirely she doesn't want to lose him. She's not sure she can admit that to him when she can barely admit it to herself.

He's come to mean a lot to her. It may not be a conventional relationship or partnership, but she doesn't want to lose it.

His steps begin again and fade as a nearby door squeaks and clicks to a close, and she breathes a sigh of relief that she won't have to make any more decisions for the night. Even that relief is accompanied by disappointment at his absence.

Her rational brain outlines the things she knows, reminding her of the reasons why safeguards and barriers are in her best interest. And with all of these concerns neatly outlined, supported, and organized, her defenses in place, she's still fighting the powerful temptation to open the door and follow him down the hall.

* * *

**Next- Beckett and Castle spend a day alone on the water. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 4

* * *

Beckett wakes when her phone rings. She reaches over to her bedside table in Castle's guest room and looks at the display, seeing first his name, and then the time: 7:15. She answers, her voice still unprepared for speaking. "You've been trying almost non-stop to get me to relax. So today I try to sleep in and you wake me up. I guess annoying me is the one thing normal days and vacation days have in common?"

"You wake me all the time. Sometimes at far more indecent hours," Castle says, clearly already awake and caffeinated.

"Yea. When people _die_."

"It's important. We have a tee time."

"Which kind of 'T'? Golf tee, or tea and crumpets?" she groans as she covers her eyes with the edge of her pillow. Neither sound like much fun to her.

"You think I have a tea and crumpets _schedule_?" he says with amusement. The voice on the phone begins to sound like an echo as she hears him approach her door, and his actual voice can be heard slightly in advance of the voice emanating from her phone's speaker. He taps the door softly, explaining, "'Tee' with two E's. But it's a figurative tee time anyway...a start time. No golf involved."

She lifts her head and stares at the white high-gloss paint on the door for a moment as she remembers the events of the preceding night, almost hearing the suspenseful music playing in the soundtrack in her mind. She doesn't want to play fast and loose with her heart. Or his.

Deciding it's best to face him head on and get the first awkward post-kiss moments over with, she flings off the covers and pushes herself out of bed to answer the door. She stops for a second in front of the mirror over the dresser to quickly run her fingers through her hair, making sure it's tousled in the right way (the alluring bedhead look instead of crazy woman unleashed). Even as she does it, she scolds her mirror image for caring enough to make the adjustment.

As she opens the door, hair partially covering her face, he just says, "Hi," the tone smooth and sexy. His voice has always gotten to her, but it's tinged with something…extra. First shoving his phone into his pocket, he then extends a cup of coffee in her direction. The moment she takes it, his arm retreats and he leans on the wall just outside of her door rather than entering.

"Hey, Castle," she replies softly, cradling the mug between her hands. "Thanks," she says as she lifts the cup a little to indicate what she is grateful for.

"Sleep well?"

Her eyes raise to his as she nods over the first sip from her cup, and she sees his intrigue has not faltered in the slightest. In fact, his expression draws her in, luring her like a damn tractor beam.

"Yea." Her answer comes abruptly, volume slightly elevated after she realizes he asked a question she didn't respond to. "What is that mattress made from? It's so comfortable."

"I know right! Got 'em for all of the rooms here."

She smiles at him as she leans against the footboard of her bed. The air between them practically palpitates with electricity, and she thinks it's probably really important that they have something to do today. Sitting idly around the house seems ill-advised.

Clearing her throat, she asks, "So what are we doing today?"

"Ah, yes…today I promised you some high speed fun. Maybe not quite as exciting as a motorcycle, but should be a good time nonetheless."

"Roller coaster?" she speculates.

"No…" He considers that thought, files what he believes is potential interest in that type of thrill as well. Clearing future plans from his thoughts for the time being, he shakes his head and says, "Pack sunscreen." He walks a few steps away and returns, like his words are an afterthought and not the main point, "Wear your bathing suit." Then he halts, remembering the morning she swam wearing his oversized tee shirt, "Wait…you don't have one. I can call—"

"Picked one up," she interrupts proudly, since she did while she ran errands the previous day before the picnic. "You have that nice pool…figured I should have something besides your shirts to swim in."

"Perfect," he grins.

"So you're wearing yours, right?" she asks the next time he tries to leave.

"Mine?"

"Your bathing suit. Or is this a one-sided round of show-and-tell?" She feels herself flirting, disguised as tormenting (they're used to doing that). But it definitely feels like flirting, no matter how she labels it. Knowing that it is happening doesn't stop it, almost as if her more sensible side is still sleeping in that bed she didn't want to climb out of.

"I can't swim," he counters. It's clear from the sound of his voice that she's managed to take him off guard.

"I'll teach you."

He shakes his head. "I know _how_ to swim," he corrects swiftly. "I can't get my stitches wet."

She smirks with pride at her own planning.

"What?" he asks, his eyes finally moving down her body, lingering for just a second on the way she fills a shirt when she's braless and at the expanse of legs that disappear into her night shorts. She trusts that if he hasn't looked so far, it's because he's been making concerted efforts.

"I thought that might be an issue," she counters. Reaching over the door's threshold and handing him her mug, she says, "Hold this a second?"

He takes it and waits, suspicion rising as he leans into the room a bit more so he can peer in to watch her.

She finds the bags she left on the dresser, looting through her own things for the package she wants. Beckett notes his position, the way his feet are planted just on the other side of her door in the hall, never crossing into her room like he cannot enter unless invited.

"Whatcha got there?" he asks.

"I was thinking about some of the things we might do up here, swimming and stuff. And I enjoy things like that, but…" she lifts up the package and displays it, so he squints to read the writing from across the room. "I think…for vacations…it's more fun to have someone to play _with_. Don't you?"

His elbow slips from the jamb. She loves that through all of that confidence, he isn't unshakable. And she is _still_ flirting, she's fully aware. She's supposed to be dousing these embers, but it seems she's pouring fuel on them instead.

"Understandable," he replies almost dazedly.

"So when I ran errands, I stopped in at the Urgent Care and asked if there was anything we could get so you could…dive in with me."

Walking over to him, she points at the package and reads, "Hydro-Block X-Treme Bandages."

"X-Treme, huh?"

"Only the best," she smiles.

"Nurse Marcus give those to you?" he asks (with slight suspicion/jealousy) as he takes them from her.

"Sadly he wasn't on shift. But the nurse who was there was very helpful. She also gave me a sleeve thing to put over your arm, just in case."

"Nice," he comments, still standing at the edge of the room.

She plucks the package back out of his hand, and then takes her coffee as well. "So grab your trunks, Castle. Let's go."

He nods, but stands as if frozen in his spot, watching her.

"I'm gonna get ready now…" she states, waving him off so he'll let her close the door to dress.

When he lingers for several more seconds, staring into the room like he's waiting to see what happens if he waits long enough, she puts her hand on her hip and admonishes him with her expression.

"Right!" he replies cheerily enough, like he woke up again. "Meet you downstairs."

He whistles as he heads down the hall.

* * *

They arrive at the marina ready to go not even an hour later. Castle speaks to the attendant as Beckett waits. Does the man ever dress slumpy? His pajamas even seem like coordinated designer sleepwear. Standing by the docks, he has trunks on, but is wearing them with a button down shirt and sunglasses, carrying a cooler, and oddly enough he still looks kind of formal. She giggles quietly as she imagines him showering wearing a tie, and managing to attach one of those brightly colored pocket squares to his chest somehow.

Her finely honed detective skills aren't required to realize they're taking a boat, and it certainly sounds fun enough to her (although she doubts any of the boats simulate the joy of riding her bike).

The attendant walks them down the docks to the right boat. Kate is pleased it's not some mansion on a hull. The boat is smallish (by Hamptons' standards) but still high end, belonging to a friend of Castle's who agreed to allow them to take it out for the day.

They climb on board, and she sees another marina employee working on something at the back of the boat. She nearly gasps when she sees it. Of course Castle is right behind her and asks, "Like it?" his words spoken next to her ear.

She bobs her head as she stares at the jet ski off the back. "That's gonna be fun."

Castle looks happier than she is, like he's somehow getting one over on her if he's able to make her really enjoy herself.

"Just a few more things, and we'll be ready to go," he optimistically adds.

He pulls out his cell, sending quick texts (she thinks to his mother and Alexis), and then powering it down. Kate wonders if he's ditching the phone because of the interruption the night before or to protect it from potential water damage.

"Yours?" he asks, holding out his hand. "Gonna stash some things in a locker."

"Mine is back at your place," she shrugs. "I told everyone not to bother me, so why would I need it?"

His eyes flash up at hers for a second, and she hopes he'll explain whatever happened during the call with Gina. He hasn't offered her a single hint about what the call entailed. Anything is possible. Some part of her thought she might step on board the boat and find Gina waiting there to join them. (She was that surprised when she saw Gina at the precinct earlier that summer.) At least that hasn't happened. A day as a third wheel did not sound relaxing at all, but fortunately the woman was nowhere in sight.

He climbs down the ladder to the dock, and Kate follows him, chatting as they walk back to the building.

"So was everything okay last night?" Beckett asks, trying to sound like she's making a casual, friendly inquiry.

"Well, I had a lot on my mind, so it took me forever to get to sleep," he states bluntly, watching her, so she tries to continue to look unaffected.

She feels the hot flush grow over her skin although she fights it, knowing he certainly won't miss the way she blushes, but she continues on anyway. She tries to redirect, "Gina still upset?"

"That was _not_ the part of the evening that kept me awake."

Kate clears her throat, trying to stay stubbornly on the topic. "So she's _not_ upset?"

He practically sighs at her dogged fixation with the direction of the conversation, but answers as she wishes, "She's alright. We agree we're not a great match. I mean our relationship didn't work the first time _at all, _so I don't know what even made me consider the chance that it might work now."

Beckett nods. "So you aren't trying to work things out?"

"With Gina? Oh god, no!" he says, expression so adamant it nears over-the-top. He smiles in a way that suggests he sees more than she wants to show.

They reach the door to the main building, and Castle grasps the handle, but doesn't yet open the door. "Mostly…she wanted me to stop denying that there's something happening between you and me. Some deep, raw, mutual attraction between us that we can't resist. I guess she thought I was lying. Or maybe in denial. I'm not sure which exactly. I could ask her for clarification."

"Y-you told her there's nothing, though? Right?" Kate answers, feeling that overwhelmed dizziness she sometimes feels when he says something that makes her feel warmly confused.

"Sure. But…"

"But what?"

"Well, she sent some pictures friends took of us at the picnic," he replies, now the more confident party. "I can see why she'd feel so convinced. You…are a _really_ good actress. You looked completely enamored."

He opens the door and hurries inside, Kate's legs taking a moment to move. "Pictures? What pictures?"

He locks the phone inside one of the lockers along with his wallet and a few other things. "Anything you want me to stash in here?" he asks nonchalantly.

"Uh…N—no."

Castle talks to the man behind the counter, checks out a few pieces of equipment, and begins walking back to the boat.

When she catches up, she queries again, "Castle, show me. Now."

"Show you what?"

"The pictures!" she demands, frustration bubbling.

He helps her onto the boat as if he doesn't have a care in the world. "Oh, the pictures! I'll show you later. They're on my phone. Relax. They're just shots of you and me at the picnic...playing happy couple."

* * *

A few moments later the boat is unmoored and they head out to sea. It is another beaming summer day, the sun glowing and sliding over the ripples in the water so brightly the ocean looks more bright white than grey or blue.

Castle drives the boat, he knows where he wants to go. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Kate pulls her hair up into a loose pony tail and settles back into the seat beside his. She braces her bare feet on the dash in front of them, something he thinks she probably never does at home in a car (probably because she never lets anyone else drive), but she is trying to relax, and he appreciates her efforts.

She's wearing shorts that would never suit the detective at work, and a cute little buttoned top that he's guessing is covering her bathing suit. It's tied at the bottom, and sometimes when she moves just right, he can see her tummy or her side. Seeing any flash of Beckett that he doesn't normally see intrigues him. Some days he gets lost in the movement of her fingers performing ordinary tasks, or the expressions on her face when she thinks she's alone. He is, in many, many ways, a student of her.

She sticks her hand out over the side of the boat, playing with the rushing air like she can catch it if she angles her hand just right.

What he wouldn't do to hear her thoughts. Is she thinking about him? About their kiss or what might have been had they not been interrupted? Or is she busy thinking about someone or something else that has nothing to do with him? Her body language offers no clues.

He cannot decide if he should address things head on, mention the kiss, or maybe even ask her out on an actual date. But what's the difference between the things they're doing, and an actual date?

Wishing he had his cell phone to show her the pictures Gina sent him, he is convinced Beckett will not be able to look at them without seeing what he saw. Then again, he's glad he doesn't have his damn cell phone, and she doesn't have hers, because that should help them avoid outside interruptions. Fleetingly he imagines being out on the water, the two sharing a moment, only to find a helicopter flying overhead, agents leaning out of it with bullhorns, screaming messages for one of them. It seems like something always gets in the way.

He wonders if she's forgotten all about the previous night, or is pretending to, or maybe wishes she could forget.

Glancing down at the handheld GPS he checked out at the marina, he adjusts their trajectory slightly and continues on until he sees the spot his boating buddy had mentioned. Beckett looks at him like he's a little crazy as he gets close to the "island."

It's essentially some gravel and rock, only a few feet across, marked with flags and buoys so boaters don't inadvertently hit it. It certainly doesn't look like an attractive spot to stop, but he sees the metal attachments that allow boaters to temporarily dock their boats.

Beckett hops down over the side and onto the glorified rock, apparently enthusiastic enough for this venture to help out. She doesn't know how to tie up the boat, so he coaches her, and he feels surprised that she listens to his instructions.

He's feeling pretty good about his choice for the day's excursion. He has selected another activity that she's excited for. He _knows _her. At some point today, he'll point that out.

Rick crosses to the back of the boat by the jet ski and lowers the apparatus into position in the water. When he's done getting it ready for her, he turns around just in time to see her draping her shirt over one of the seats, and standing there in just half a swimming suit and tiny jean shorts. Her likeness belongs on posters on dorm room walls worldwide.

Pondering her motivations, he wonders if she dressed in this solely to create a delightful torment for him, to drive him completely mad with wanting. He certainly hopes so.

The bikini is deep purple, the color of luxury and royalty, magic and mystery. The cups of the top are approaching over-fullness, supported by tie behind straps that look like they should come undone with the slightest decent tug, but won't. He acknowledges the strength of the desire to yank her shorts off her with his teeth, although he manages to resist. He doubts she has any idea the amount of restraint he's exercised for her benefit in the last two years.

He realizes Beckett is talking, thankfully this time _before _she catches him and barks his name. He hurries up on deck and lifts the lid on one of the bench seats to pull out a life preserver. When he looks toward her, she's bending and contorting in this practiced way that allows her long arms and fingers to spread sunblock all over her in the most efficient, thorough, and concise way possible. All except one _little_ triangle of skin on her back just above her bikini strap near the center of her upper back. His eyesight is sometimes truly fantastic.

"You missed…there," he explains, pointing and creating a little triangle shape in the air, wiggling his finger in a vain attempt to describe the spot that truly tells her nothing about the location.

She takes his hand and slaps a dime-sized dollop of sunscreen on his outstretched fingers. He doesn't do anything at first, momentarily locked in place. Kate looks at him and says, "You gonna get it for me?" Then she looks at the life preserver and says impatiently, "Will that cover it?"

"Can't be too careful," he steps in, jumping to action before yet _another _opportunity with her passes him by. He swirls the lotion between two fingers and his thumb, trying to warm it before he spreads it on. Touching her bare back alone makes his heart thud. He tries not to linger too much, but can't resist allowing his fingers to remain against her as they leave her body, taking a slightly circuitous path down her side before breaking contact.

She turns back toward him with a sort of abrupt hair adjustment that suggests maybe she is also a little flustered. For a moment he considers offering to double check her lotion coverage personally, but she intercepts with, "Ready to go."

"Put this on," he reminds, holding out the life preserver.

As she puts on the vest, she becomes introspective. After a few seconds, she asks pensively, "Think we're in international waters out here?"

He tilts his head, looks to the shore and back with a doubtful expression. But if she wants to be in international waters, he is willing to play along. "Considering a crime spree in a jurisdictional grey area? Or perhaps high stakes gambling?"

She looks toward the shore for a second, as if her eyes could measure the distance if she tries hard enough, then focuses back at him before she says, "Something like that," in a way that floods his brain with possibilities.

His eyes grow wider as he mulls the potential things she may be considering. Wanting to ask her a million questions about whatever she's thinking, he watches as she tightens the vest, standing at the ready just in case she asks for assistance.

"Okay!" she says when it's finished, displaying unhindered enthusiasm as she darts for the back of the boat, ready to go.

"Hang on," Rick insists, finding the other handheld GPS Unit. He brings the clip to her life vest and attaches it, quickly giving her instructions on how to use it to get back to him if she gets lost. The units are paired, so if they become separated, a touch of a button will help her find him.

"I should have gotten one of these when you first started shadowing me," she teases. "Could have kept tabs on you during your rogue-moments."

He stops, feeling the urge again, the one that's approaching omnipresence in his mind, to do _something _to tell or show or convey how he feels. He stares too long, locked mid-way between thought and speech, and she says, "What?" with a hint of exasperation.

"Nothing. Have fun," he replies instinctively.

She puts on protective goggles. They should look silly on her, they do on everyone, but he thinks she looks sort of cute in them, and that gives him pause.

"Aren't you coming?" she questions.

"Later," he replies. "Go capture that 'alone on the open road' vibe you wanted before your bike was bent and crunched by my ex-wife."

It takes her only a short while to figure out how to work the jet ski, and in the next moment, she's on it and off in the distance. And not at all cautiously. She flies so quickly over the waves that at some points she's above them. It's funny how a person so rule- and protocol-bound is also so fearless. He swears he hears her "whoop" far off in the distance, but can't quite tell if it's her, or his imagination, or the sounds of the ocean playing tricks on him.

* * *

Beckett's joy is unmistakable. Yes, this is a lot like a motorcycle…without much traffic at all, or roads, trees, or pedestrians. It's even opener than the open road. The waves bring just enough of the unexpected to make it even better, something for the machine to play with. She figures out how to use the waves to make the jet ski bounce higher, or how to ride the ridges and valleys in the ripples to go faster without so much resistance.

After slipping over the surface of the ocean for fifteen or twenty minutes, reveling in the freedom, something feels out of place. In so many ways, this is what she thought she wanted, what she told Castle she hoped for when she originally planned her trip.

He has given her all of that today, solitude, speed, and freedom. Castle didn't even try to insert himself into the fun, encouraging her to go off and enjoy riding on her own. So why did she feel the urge to go back and get him?

She sees the boat in the distance, knowing he is on it, seeing his outline as he looks out over the water, possibly in her direction.

When did her desire for solitude and freedom change into a dream of freedom and fun with someone else? With _him._

The thing is, as much fun as this is, she wants him to share it. The jet ski and the carnival and the fireworks are all great, but what makes those things truly exciting is his company.

As she begins the journey back to the boat, she wonders maybe if she is the only one truly interested. The only kiss they've shared, just the night before, she practically ambushed him. Perhaps he enjoys the game they play, the ebb and flow and thrill of the chase, but deep down isn't interested in anything more than that.

The man kissed her cheek just after meeting her, and has yet to do even that much since. Surely someone so brazen and bold wouldn't hesitate. In the very same breath, she wonders what it would mean for them, for work, for her life in general, should anything change between them.

She seems to invite the change even as she tries to keep it at bay. And here she is, again, squandering an opportunity to be on her own and inviting him in.

When she's near enough, he shouts, "What's wrong?" over the side.

"Nothing," she replies, using a few latch locks to attach the jet ski to the boat before she climbs up the ladder. "It's later. Let's go."

"So soon?" he inquires, looking disappointed, assuming she wants to leave already.

"You said you would join me later. Now it's later. You're coming with me," she orders. "Take the boat keys. It's tied up here, so it's not going anywhere. Besides, we won't go too far, we'll keep it in sight." She goes to her bag and grabs the special bandages she's gotten for him.

She fetches the boat key from the ignition and latches it to her life jacket so they don't misplace it, then helps him get ready. Kate cautiously replaces the bandage with the waterproof one, making sure to cover the sutured area completely, glancing at him and always finding him offering his full attention. Next she unfolds the protective sleeve. "You're not wearing that shirt out on the water, are you, Castle?" she asks. "It's gonna get ruined."

He looks down at it, and verbally stumbles, "No. Guess not," before he begins to unbutton.

She walks behind him to help him get out of his shirt, although she isn't sure why (he has a cut on his arm, not a back injury, break, or mortal wound that would prevent him from doing it himself). Still she guides it deftly over his shoulders and down each arm, carefully placing it over her own neatly hung shirt.

She tries not to stare, but he's shirtless there, and he's certainly never been so exposed in front of her before. Kate suppresses the urge to point out that he seems far too awkward for someone with a public indecency entry on his record. He's clothed no differently than countless men on beaches near them.

"Your shorts are damp," he notes, "...from the waves splashing you. Wet denim is really uncomfortable."

Trying to avoid making an issue out of any of this, she pops the button, wiggles the waist of the shorts over her hips, and lets them fall the rest of the way. She scoops them up with one foot when they reach her toes, and she says as calmly as possible, "You're right," even though her insides (and her resolve) are shaky at best. She slaps a little sunblock on the newly exposed skin very quickly so as to not make a show of it. The bold-faced truth is she loves the feeling of being visually consumed by him, of being the focus of such intense scrutiny. She feels some guilt for this, like she _shouldn't_ enjoy it, but regardless of what should be, she knows the reality.

Refocusing her attention on him, she adjusts the plastic sleeve over a large section of his arm, and affixes the two ends as she was instructed to by the nurse. Castle is alarmingly quiet, for once, when she kind of wants him to talk. There's not a word, or a jab, or a single slightly inappropriate suggestion from him.

"Thanks," he says when she's through, his sentiment scarcely audible.

"Okay," she answers succinctly, looking around the boat for anything she may have forgotten. Her fingers tap his chest at the lower center of his ribs to tell him to wait, and his eyes drop to the spot to see where she touched.

Grabbing the second life jacket, she helps him into that as well, like his injury still mandates her assistance. Once he's all prepared, still staring mutely, she tugs the jacket and says, "Trust me…You're gonna love this, Castle."

* * *

She hops down to the jet ski first, taking the front spot and signaling for him to get on. Just like with everything else, she wants to be in charge. Although he doesn't bother arguing. Once he's astride the seat just behind her, he slides his goggles in place, and she starts up the motor and says, "You need to hold on."

"Okay…" he replies, looking around the seat for handles or something to grab onto.

"Castle?" she impatiently calls.

"I don't see the grips or—"

"To me, Castle," she explains the somewhat obvious. "You need to hold on to me." She takes his hands, one in each of hers, and moves them to her sides. "Didn't think I'd have to tell you twice."

His lips stretch into a satisfied grin, fingers spreading over her hips. Noting that she chose to place them on her _body_ instead of on the life jacket _over_ her body, he quite willingly hangs on.

Before he can have too much fun touching her, she takes off, and his fingers tighten their grasp for more practical reasons.

It's amazing how quickly this machine accelerates, but in a few seconds they are flying over the waves. He shouts approvingly as they go rocketing forward, beaming into the briny mist that sprays his face as he looks out over Beckett's shoulder.

He starts to understand her interest in her initial motorcycle trip. This _is_ fun. She's embraced it, and now she's sharing her fun with him, showing him the joy of speed on the ocean. When he can glance at her, he sees happiness radiating off of her with near solar intensity. It's powerfully addictive, the thrill of the excitement they are sharing.

Although he wanted to be the one to introduce fun to her days, he finds she's doing the same for him.

She turns the jet ski like she's planning something, and he closes his arms around her a little tighter, sensing that she is about to bolt forward again. His palm ventures low on her tummy, his other hand locking over the first. He is so alive, body and senses all firing, heart pumping for so many reasons. Her joy is provoking his.

He entertains a brief fantasy where she leans back before she guides his hand into her suit, allowing him to seek her warmth and wetness as she drives. She'd never make it so easy, but he wants to so entirely that he can practically feel her already. Right when he gets to the part of the scenario where her head lulls back on his shoulder, his mouth seeking her neck as her hips begin to move in jerkier rhythms, she shouts something he cannot discern, and it's enough to snap him out of his trance and back to reality.

As she finds a spot of unruly water left behind a speedboat, she heads straight for it, and their craft leaps through the air as it crosses the wake. Beckett shouts happily as they lose contact with the water, those moments suspended in mid-air causing flip flops in his stomach that mingle with the fluttering in his heart.

He feels a sense of awed fulfillment that she really is getting into the spirit of the day.

It's hot.

It's _so _hot, the way she embraces her wilder side. He knows it's always inside her, typically weighted under leather jackets, disguised by professional blouses, and hidden behind the shield on her badge.

But it's alluring and… hot (that seems to be the only word that fits) in a way beyond the fantasies he entertains. He doesn't know how or why, it just is. It's full body hot. Energy hot. Spirit hot.

They take a few breaks, but spend much of the next hour playing in the waves. Now it's his face that hurts from grinning, but he can't seem to stop, their excitement is reciprocal and binding. She circles their boat, and he thinks the day is winding down. Truly, thoroughly, he doesn't want it to be over. But she kills the motor before they're docked and says. "Your turn."

"Me?" he sounds as surprised as he is.

"Yea," she shrugs, "You've been patient, waited for me to have my turn… more than my turn, really. Now it's your turn to ride this thing."

"You're gonna let me be in control?" he scoffs.

"Tell anyone and I'll shoot you," she teases. "Brace your hands on the seat and keep your weight centered so we don't tip." He smirks that even her idea of allowing him to be in control comes with orders. He wonders if she'll tell him which way to go, how fast, and for how long. He's already decided if she does, he'll disobey just because he can (and maybe to irk her a little).

She turns and sits on the console for a moment, and his eyes rake her scantily clad figure in front of him. He wonders if she'd kill him if he reached out for a little taste of her skin. She's agile (so incredibly disappointing in this instance), as she steps over his leg to the one side and slides behind him. He wishes she'd be a little less capable here, maybe slip or crash into him, ask him to hold onto her for balance. Of course she doesn't.

Once she is behind him, his hand brushes her thigh, and he feels a rush in his groin just from that. Seriously. From a little brush of a thigh. He chides himself for being slightly pathetic even while enjoying just how exciting she is to him. Few people have made him feel this way.

Settling on the seat behind him, she scoots close. She takes the spiral attachment for the key to the jet ski and hooks it to his vest before he puts it in the ignition, a safety feature that will stop the motor if he ends up flying off the machine. Instructions come immediately, and he's following them, but is so distracted he isn't sure how.

His hips are wider than hers, so her legs are spread wide to accommodate him, her inner thighs against his outer thighs, only the swishy material of his trunks separating their legs. He wishes the life jacket wasn't required, because he'd love to feel her against his back while she hangs on. Their bodies are so close together in the places where they aren't separated by floatation gear.

Her arms encircle him, and then he realizes she's talking to him.

"You nervous?" she asks, peering around him.

"No."

"It's okay if you are, Castle. It's your first time, I'll be gentle. If it doesn't go well—"

He looks over his shoulder at her and smiles. "Go ahead…say it," he interrupts. "I can tell you want to."

Her eyes grow a little wider as she brings back a memory. Wrinkling her nose, she teases, "We could always just cuddle."

And at that, before she's really ready, he takes off. He hears her squeeing happily behind him, shouting something that is doubtlessly encouragement.

She doesn't hang on loosely. He would think she'd be the type to hook a finger on his vest, or hang onto the seat below her instead of him because she's too coolly independent to hold onto him. Sometimes being wrong is a wonderful thing, he notes as he absorbs her touch.

Her one hand is low on his stomach, placed in the spot below the vest and above his shorts, and he can't stop thinking about it even though he should. He jerked off that morning because he isn't an idiot. She's beautiful and sexy and hot (there's that word again) and he knew there would be visible skin and potentially close moments out here. He wanted to be sure to avoid a too eager reaction. Yet all he can think about is her hand on his stomach, her legs against his, her chest at his back (and the fact that he truly, epically, fucking hates life preservers).

He chooses to give himself a mission, a task to learn and master that will keep his mind busily engaged so he doesn't spend any more time imagining her hand falling lower, fingers slipping into his trunks.

While floating out in the water, he pauses to ask her a question about how to best hop the waves in the wake of another boat, should one come along. There must be a trick to get the kind of hang time she achieves. She can't hear over the engine, so she relaxes her hold on him and leans out to the side to offer her ear. He has a loose grip on the throttle to keep his balance. As she leans out, the view he has of her doesn't exactly steady him. But when she lifts her face, so close to his, her eyes beautiful in spite of the goggles, he's thoroughly dazed. He's taken by her, beyond her body or her eyes or the thousands of other beautiful things he's already too aware of. Rougher waters approach while he's navigating rhetorical landmines, causing the vehicle to rock and lurch unexpectedly while he's already a bit unbalanced, and he reflexively grabs the grips, engages the throttle, and takes off flying, sending Kate hurtling into the water.

"Beckett!" he screams. Hurriedly circling the jet ski to return to her, he realizes at this point that he's probably going to be the recipient of the full extremity of her irritation. He tries to search for her, grateful the sun is less overwhelming as evening nears, but still finds her difficult to pinpoint. Just as he hits the 'locate' button on his GPS, he sees a flash of yellow-orange bobbing in the water and goes toward her.

As quickly as possible, he gets to her and reaches his hand down to help pull her up. She latches her heel on the edge of the watercraft, and allows him to help lift her. He braces as he anticipates physical retribution.

"Beckett, I'm so sorry, I didn't—" he pauses because he hears some kind of sound he mistakes for labored breathing, and worries that she was hurt in the fall or swallowed too much water, perhaps had the wind knocked out of her by the edge of the jet ski.

Focusing all of his energy into bringing her to safety, he pulls her toward the front of the seat between the console and him. She lands in the spot seated sideways, legs perpendicular to his. "Are you alright?" he asks again.

She yanks the goggles off, letting them hang off her arm, coughing slightly. When she finally looks up at him, he realizes she's snickering at her own misfortune. Clearly she had the wind knocked out of her, so she's a bit shaky, leaning her shoulder against him as she catches her breath. Finally she replies, "I'm fine. You are _so _going to pay for that."

"I didn't mean it, I really—," he begins to defend, but she's offering a wide smile and her stare is soft. It's almost like even though she was just blindsided and dumped in the water, she's not playing defense. He takes off his goggles too, believing he may not be accurately seeing her through the salty dots left on the lenses by the water.

She giggles softly, resting against him. He notes for the first time that his hand is on her back just below the life jacket, steadying her in her place. She's not pulling away to underscore her self-reliance, nor is she furiously scheming. She's content in her place.

Kate looks almost tipsy, although she hasn't been drinking anything but water (and perhaps some salt water) since they've been out today. He isn't steeled for the moment when she lifts her face to his. Her expression is innocent and unguarded, and he wants to live that moment with her completely. Her nose brushes his gently, and he reaches up to catch a bead of saltwater from her brow before it falls into her eye. His hand remains there after the task, cradling her cheek.

"Are you alright?" he asks one more time since she didn't answer. "You sure you're not hurt?"

"I'm fine, Castle," she whispers, the sounds of the world around them fade to a hum.

She remains near, and his senses scramble. The strangest things seem to bring her closer to him, and somehow this time, dunking her in the ocean has done exactly that. Their lips are just short of meeting, the touch almost palpable, their inhalations timed like their bodies are synchronizing. It would take virtually nothing to make this a kiss, but it stands just shy of one.

Her chest turns toward him, her legs still outstretched to the side. In truth, she's practically flipped on a neon 'kiss me' sign, and yet still he doesn't push things further. It's so exciting right there, like that, _almost_ kissing, but he can't explain his own refusal to act.

It's like she's slapped with a realization suddenly and turns, his hand dropping from her face as she looks out to the ocean once more. "I should—"

"You're so incredibly beautiful," he interrupts.

She practically groans, the tension visibly seizing her shoulders, "You don't have to say that."

"It's the truth," he replies quickly, sensing her feeling of rejection as a result of his inaction. "You're not afraid of the truth, are you?"

She shakes her head, wet hair hanging heavily. "I am _not _afraid of the truth. But I _am_ afraid of falling for a lie that I believe to be the truth." At that she looks at him, her unrelenting stare, the one that breaks murderers and tricks men into unwanted confessions.

He's not sure why her words feel like a dagger to his heart, but they do. His hand presses more firmly against her back in reassurance.

"Who, exactly, do you think is lying to you?" he questions gently.

She tightens her frown, shaking her head, but his question is not directly answered.

Continuing with such heartfelt solemnity, she adds, "Just once in a while, I wish I could do whatever I want without getting tied up in the possible ramifications. I'm so focused on what could go wrong that…" her head drops in frustration, the faucet that allowed her words now closed.

"What do you want that is so dangerous?" His voice sounds so nervous it's embarrassing, but she doesn't seem to notice.

With a thoughtful pause, her words trickle forth again. "Do you ever want something...or think you want something...but you're afraid if you get what you want, it will ruin everything?" Her question is honest, but it seems she answers it herself without waiting for him. She huffs like the thought is ridiculous. "Of course you don't. You live life to the fullest, right? If you want something, you just—"

"That's not true," he interjects. "With some things, sure. With others…there are things…or _people_…that are so important to me that the consequences matter. I just don't apply the same rigid thought process to things that are unimportant, I save caution and consideration for things that are."

"So there are things even you want but don't have?" she says, as if it's a joke.

"Absolutely," he answers soberly. The tension in the air makes it hard to breathe, like the humidity is filling his lungs with more liquid than air. He adds softly, "Although to ruin _everything…_ well… not too many things have that kind of power unless we let them. Maybe you're overthinking it." Remembering her earlier question, he adds (only half-teasing), "Or, maybe out here in international waters the typical rules do not apply, so you don't have to worry about it."

Kate nods, virtually reactionless, her eyes squinting to guard against the lingering brightness.

Could she really be so unaware of the gravity of his feelings, of the fact that she's turned him upside down and inside out, and does so on a nearly daily basis? Or maybe he has misunderstood everything, and whatever thoughts are on her mind aren't the ones he expects.

She doesn't mind admitting that the potential fallout scares her, but doesn't want to confess to the attraction. He freely admits the attraction (always has), but doesn't want to admit it scares him. On the surface, they're blatant opposites. Are they really so different if the attraction is mutual, and the worries are shared?

He knows how easily the scales can tip between them, how it would only take one word or look to make one of them (most likely her) pull away.

So he tries a joke again, one quite similar to one he tried a few days ago and was swiftly shot down. He suggests, "Take a risk, Beckett. What happens in international waters…" He doesn't finish the thought, knowing he's said enough to convey his meaning.

She does not protest, glancing over her shoulder at him.

The look in her eye crashes against his chest. He doesn't want to reject her, or hurt her, or fuck this all up, and he definitely doesn't want her to regret him. He does not like to lose. He's lucky, it doesn't seem to happen to him all that often, but it could definitely happen here. And if this all goes wrong and he loses her…that is the kind of loss he would _always_ carry with him.

As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he shares her fear of making a mistake that ruins everything.

He matters to her, he confirms that in proof he sees, feels, and understands. And that mattering means he can hurt her. She can deny it, scoff, huff, roll her eyes, outright verbally lambaste him in front of everyone at any opportunity, but it's there. Even if she doesn't want it to be.

It's his turn to act. He needs to accept some of the risk, invest a little of himself, as she did the night before when she kissed him. It is time to put himself out there in a way that directly conveys his interest without disguising it with humor or teasing. He reaches for her face again, his fingers curling behind her neck just at the base of her head. He brings her near, pressing her forehead to his, noses touching. Her chest moves more heavily.

Castle tilts his head only enough to allow his lips to brush hers. It's faint, a delicate caress. Her lips part slightly in response, allowing him to kiss each, the upper and lower, with those same gentle brushes.

At that he pauses, pulls back the slightest amount, finding her eyes closed, lips still offered up to him. Her eyelids flutter open in question, the pair exchanging brief, slightly smitten glances before his mouth finds hers again.

When he chooses to deepen the kiss, her lips part with willing compliance for him, and with that simple change, his reservations are gone. Nothing about kissing her could possibly be a bad idea, not when it feels like this.

The kiss is slow and wet, exciting and warm, barriers being tested. There is no hurry, but there is a sense of urgency, an insistence that shows this isn't an under-thought colliding so much as a chosen path.

He doesn't feel her resistance right now, noticing her stuttered breath and heaving chest, and the tiny moans that escape her from time-to-time.

The life jackets form padded cocoons around their torsos, their degree of closeness metered by this layer of protection. That metaphor feels too perfect to be accidental.

"Take me back to the boat?" she asks when they finally pause again, neither pulling away although their lips are, for the moment, not in contact.

He nods, kissing her again because he can, because he's wanted to for a long time, and feels like it's allowed. _Why not enjoy it? _He wonders if she knows he's not just trying to get laid. "In a minute," he says against her, their lips glancing as he forms the words. "What's your hurry?"

He finds he's kissing her smile for a moment before she sighs, scattering sparks across his nerves. When she pulls back this time, only barely, she says, "I thought we could take off these vests. It's like trying to kiss someone while wearing those inflatable sumo costumes."

The idea makes him chuckle, realizing she is as dissatisfied with the barrier between them as he is, wondering if they are having any other similar thoughts. With a gentle nibble of her lower lip, he adds, "Since I'd like to arrive back at the boat together, maybe you should drive."

She soundlessly giggles, straddling the seat and moving into place. Taking his hands and guiding them around her, she clicks on the engine and takes off toward the boat.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N-I can't possibly say it enough…thank you all. I enjoy writing and sharing this story so much. **

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 5

* * *

Kate does not waste time getting the jet ski back to the boat, largely because she doesn't want to lose her nerve. That could happen all too easily. Caving to this, not only acknowledging but _acting_ on what she wants, will come at a price. But still the feeling of his hands holding onto her as they ride feels more charged, more exciting, keeping her interest piqued and focused. It's possible that she's beyond the point of no return. This is playing out in her mind already, his body and hers, skin to skin, and now she can't unimagine it.

Once they're back at the boat, she climbs up the ladder first as he quickly connects the line from the watercraft to secure it. He's so distracted, so caught up in what he hopes is about to happen, that he doesn't latch it correctly, and it begins to slowly drift away. Beckett reaches down past him and grabs the line before he's even on the deck of the boat.

_Sometimes it's good to be pragmatic_, she thinks, knowing that had she not noticed, the jet ski likely would have floated away. It makes her think that maybe she should remain levelheaded, even now, with him. Then again, even responsible people deserve to let loose once in a while. Doesn't she deserve to do something wildly impulsive and just enjoy it?

As Castle climbs up the last rung of the ladder, she grabs ahold of his life vest and pulls him further onto the boat, away from the edge.

_Screw pragmatism_.

She keeps a locked hold on his vest and pulls him in, instigating this kiss with the hunger she feels, the desire for freedom, passion, and excitement. If he isn't quite certain if she is willing to follow through with this, she hopes this kiss answers his questions.

The desire for him, that's what this is really about, like it or not. All of those things, the passion, excitement, and freedom, are _byproducts_ of being with him, not the ultimate goal. At the heart, she knows what she really wants. And it worries her a bit.

Through the cacophony of slightly panicked self-talk, he's there, kissing her, touching her, well…touching her as best as he can. Castle is trying to get his arms around her, but the life vests they both still wear interfere quite a bit with his attempts. His irritation is plain, an anomalous burst of frustration through otherwise amplified excitement.

He forces himself to step back although it's clearly not what he wants. He pops the buckles on her life preserver first with clumsy fingers, taking it off her with respectful care that is in stark contrast to the way he slings the empty vest to the ground with a, "Ha!" like he's vanquished a mighty enemy. She waits for him to adopt a hands-on-hips superhero stance, but fortunately he stops short of that display.

He returns to her hastily, his arm scooping under hers, as he roughly pulls her to his chest. His palm is on her nearly exposed back, only a strap from her suit in the way.

But he still has his life jacket on, a fact that he doesn't seem all that aware of as he passionately kisses her. His lips are luxuriously persistent, exploring her shoulders, neck, and chest with too much desire for her to have even the faintest concern about his interest in this.

"Take it off," she groans with authority, realizing that even that short phrase is stippled with lusty gasps.

"Absolutely," he replies, his fingers meeting at her back to undo the tie holding her top in place.

"No," she wriggles away, putting just a little space between them and tugging at one of the fasteners on his life jacket. "This. Take this off."

"Right," he answers, looking for the clasps on his vest, literally turning around as he tries to find them.

She's giggling at the sight, and distinctly feels she shouldn't be. Most (or all) of the men she's dated before would not be pleased with laughter directed at them during a passionate moment. But then again, they probably wouldn't spin around trying to unencumber themselves either. The thing about Castle is that his sense of humor extends to himself as well as the rest of the world. That's part of what makes him so much fun.

"Want help there, Don Juan?" she asks, stepping in again. She wonders what kind of energy crises she could solve if she could bottle the look he gives her.

"Yes, please. I have more pressing issues to attend to," he answers, putting his arms up, all too willingly surrendering. He pinches his lips tightly together as he looks at her, his stare unrelenting no matter how close she gets. It's not like he tries to hide his interest. He never has before, why should he now that he has proof that she wants him?

His clasps are off to the side and she stoops slightly to open them. He's given up on his attempt to remove the floatation device, trusting her to do so, and that frees him from the obligation. His mouth moves over her neck and down her shoulder, his lips (has she mentioned how damn soft they are?) caressing and tasting her. He hums his approval.

She manages to free the life jacket's clasps, and he stands tall and rips it off of him, completely foregoing the gentleness he showed when he removed hers a moment earlier. He flings it and it goes flying off the boat and into the water.

Her brow furrows as worry lines her face. Sometimes his carelessness makes more work for her.

"We'll get it later," he answers, like he accidentally threw away a paperclip, quickly seeking renewed closeness with her.

She knows getting it later is not an option. She sighs and pulls back, grabbing a pole with a net on the end probably used for fishing. Kate leans over the side of the boat to retrieve it.

"So much for exercising your impulsive, carefree muscles," he chuckles, coming up behind her while she balances on the edge.

"I'm trying to be carefree, not completely irresponsible," she argues. "That GPS unit is latched onto that. And one of the keys."

"Oh yea," he concedes. "Forgot about that." She can feel him staring at her ass as she leans over the side. He closes the gap between them, and his arms encircle her waist as he whispers in her ear, "I'll make sure you don't fall in," before he nibbles the lobe, his hands sliding over her abdomen.

Chills begin at the top of her spine and spread over her body, and for a moment she's swept up, resistance faltering as she nearly yields in his arms. With each passing moment, she's more aware of how much she wants (needs) this to happen. It is astounding the amount of influence he has over her when the space between them is gone.

Her moan is so charged the sound of it kind of turns _her_ on. He groans, "You like that?"

"Mm-hmm," she replies a bit breathlessly, reaching one hand behind her to hold his head in place in encouragement.

Of course with the other hand and some of her body weight she completes her task, leveraging the net and pole on the side of the boat to bring up the life jacket. The moment it's on board, she drops the items like meaningless garbage and hones her focus on him.

He still has her wrapped in his arms, his front to her back. She's keenly aware of the new feeling of their bodies together, so little between them now that she can feel his stomach rise with each breath. Her form fits easily within his arms. His chest, broad, firm, and hot behind her, reminds her of the leaps toward intimacy that they've taken, and prompts her consideration of things that may come. Her hands move to the outsides of his thighs to pull him against her. He's been all over her, scattering her senses, urging her responses, and as nice as that is, she wants the same opportunity to learn him.

She can't resist rocking her hips so her ass pushes back against him. His mouth opens in response, breathing against the junction of her neck and shoulder as he offers a lusty moan in reply. His hands tighten on her hips before sliding back around her, settling low on her exposed belly.

The top segment of each of his pinkie fingers nudges down into her bikini bottom at the front, poking just beneath the band, not moving anywhere truly indecent just yet. But the thought is now strobing at the forefront of her mind. He frees one hand, spread wide, that moves up her torso and curls over her breast. His grasp is firm, certain, not a hint of levity from him now. This isn't a joke to him. Or her. The pad of his thumb toys with her rigid nipple, rolling and plucking as it pulls tighter, sending a flood of furious heat between her legs.

From here she can feel his erection behind her, noting the strength of his response that seems to mirror her own. He's confessed (often) to having certain thoughts about her, while she's kept her desires more hidden, but she's fascinated, wondering about the realities of the person who has crept into her fantasies more frequently than she'd let on. The urge to turn around, plunge her hand into his shorts, and wrap her fingers around him clamors in her brain. She wants to make his eyes roll back, his senses short-circuit. Kate is determined to quiet that loud smirk, and drive him so wild that he finds he somehow wants her more _after_ he's had her than before.

Still keeping her body against his, she kisses him over her shoulder just as his fingers slide under her bikini and steadily move lower. "This thing have a cabin?" she asks.

His fingers halt their southward procession, and he asks uncertainly, brain only a few steps away from complete shut down, "Who me?"

Her shoulders shake with a giggle. As much as she wants to sound frustrated that he did not understand, she loves how much she is getting to him, scrambling his thoughts, messing with his mind.

She repeats more clearly, "The _boat_. Does it have a cabin? Some place private?"

"Oh," he answers loudly, nodding, "the boat!"

She turns in his arms and faces him. "What the hell did you think I meant?"

His lips taste her smile, "Why would I want to think right now?"

"I'm not getting naked out here in broad daylight where any passing boaters could see. So...does the boat have a cabin? Some place where we won't be seen by anyone and everyone who comes by?" she asks very clearly, noting the way he shivers for only a second when she suggests nudity.

He looks to the sky and finally answers, "They have one of those built in cooler things in the deck for fishing. We could probably get down in there."

Her reaction, one of utter disgust that is not masked or diluted in any way, is carved into her face.

"So the dead fish-cooler is a no?" he teases. Castle's laugh trembles from his chest into hers, his affectionate expression messing with her heart. His hands slide down over her butt, pulling her against him, and she can see the array of miniature reactions on his face that paints the picture of a very invested and aroused man.

"Yes, there's a cabin," he offers. "Guess I'll save the cooler for another round."

"You expect to get laid, messing with me like that?" she counters lightly.

He is momentarily a bit serious. "I don't 'expect.' I want. I crave. No expectations."

It's the right thing to say, perfectly scripted, but she wonders if it, and many of the things he says, are just that: scripts, narrative written for her ears.

He yanks off the waterproof sleeve they added to his arm before they went out on the water, she senses that he doesn't like it between them, and then she's reminded. "You have protection, right?"

"Uhh," he looks around at their stuff on the bottom of the boat (like he'd be able to find what they need conveniently there waiting) and she sees disappointment slap him. His look could definitely be considered panicked. "No…you?"

She shakes her head.

He gripes, his pitch higher, "I didn't think I'd need it. I mean I didn't _assume_ things would…you know…go in this direction. _Yet_." He says in a secretive voice, "I mean I was _hoping_ at some point, but…" He looks toward shore, at the jet ski, and back to her, and she can hear the ticking sounds in his head from some sort of ridiculous plan. He probably feels if this doesn't happen now it will never happen, and he doesn't want to give any more opportunity for something to come between them.

"Wait!" he says, like he just discovered the cure for all of the woes of the world.

He hurries to the cabin access door and drops below deck. The steps are tiny and narrow, some hybrid of stairs and a ladder. The cabin itself is a bit low overhead, the finishes sleek and modern although the space is small. At least it's private.

"Sy…he has to have some down here somewhere," Castle mentions, kneeling on the bed and opening cupboards and drawers and tossing contents around like a starving man searching for provisions. "When it comes to women, this place is a total…" he pauses, lifting a finger to ask her to wait for him to rethink his words, wincing sharply and glancing at Beckett to assess the damage. "For him. Not for me. I have never brought a women here. Honestly."

"So I'm not a woman?" she asks, amused by his 'damage control.'

He resumes his rummaging. "Of course not," he confidently answers like his words are the most flattering sort of compliment.

She squints inquisitively and just waits. _He'll hear it._

"Wait, no," he argues when the meaning of his words comes through to him. Abruptly looking back at her, he continues, "You _are_ a woman. Obviously. Very, very obviously. A very _beautiful_ woman. I meant you're not…you know…"

She tilts her head and waits. It's too much fun to see him muddle through like this.

"You're not… …" his hand is held out, doubtlessly waiting for her to fill in the blank or tell him she understands. "Look, I mean you're not just _some woman_. You're…you're you. You're Beckett."

"You've really captured my essence there, Castle."

Still kneeling on the bed, his hand braced on the ceiling above to steady his body as the waves rock the boat, he sincerely says, "For the record, I didn't bring you here in an attempt to get in your... _life jacket_."

"I know," she replies calmly. "If you did, you probably would have brought protection."

"So true."

"Besides…" she very intentionally provokes, "who says I'd mind if that was your intention from the start?"

The comment lands as intended, his eyes growing to double their normal size. He spins back to the cupboards and drawers, frantically tearing through their host's belongings, making no effort whatsoever to return anything to its original place, or make it appear undisturbed, and then he yips, "Yes!" with utterly joyful excitement, one fist balled up in celebration. He opens the box and pulls out four individual packets. "Should be enough…" he dons a confident expression, "...for now."

His triumphant mood dims for a second as he promises, "I'll replace the whole box, you have my word… and Sy said to make ourselves at home," likely worried that she'll tell him this is an act of theft and she can't be any part of it.

"Good," she calmly answers, nodding, a potential hiccup out of the way. She's already decided she's going through with this unless something truly monumental stops them.

"Good," he mimics, head slowly bobbing back at her.

There are a few breaths where they both wait for some reaction from the other, neither wanting to ask, _What now? _Although the question is clearly implied.

Beckett takes a deep breath, the sense that this is a now-or-never moment edging her along. _It's just sex, _she reminds herself. _We're both adults, perfectly capable of handling whatever this is. _

Reaching behind her back, she first unties the strap that sits at her mid back, the bikini top pulling away from her body, but she's still covered since the tie at the top has yet to be released.

He drops in place like a rock, sitting right on the center of the bed, leaning back on his palms, 200% of his attention on her. The silliness has vanished, replaced by hopeful longing, and he looks alternatingly up into her eyes and back to her body, reassuring and pleading for her to continue.

Tilting her head to swing her ponytail away from her neck, she reaches up behind her head and unties the second tie, allowing her top to flutter limply down to the floor. Although she is not typically shy in such circumstances, her initial urge is to cross her arms in front of her because his stare makes her feel as exposed as standing half nude in front of a packed stadium.

He comes a bit closer, bending his knees and letting his lower legs fall over the edge of the bed for a better position. She swallows roughly, noting the last few seconds where she thinks she may have the ability to still walk away, but her body moves toward him until her legs are between his, knees against the bed.

He leans in, hands turning to fists against the bed to brace him, and he kisses a trail along her belly, licks the lower edge of her ribs, blazing a path to a breast that he captures with his mouth alone. His touch is not timid, but she feels the way he tests different pressures and methods as he learns her.

The man is a quick study, and she enjoys being his subject. It takes him little time to figure out what she likes, lapping and circling his tongue, sucking with the right amount of firmness, nipping with just enough pressure from his teeth. His lips and mouth soft and warm in one moment, firm and unrelenting in the next. He knows already how to make her throb with longing (yea, she knows he was able to do that before they even got here). He is touching her with the desire he's built over the last two years.

It's at this point, so early on, that she decides she's willing to do this with him at least a few more times. If it's this good already, she can only imagine how good they could be with a little practice.

His hands finally join his mouth on her body, leaving the mattress and encircling her waist. He lifts her until her knees are on the bed, tilting back patiently, never missing a beat of bestowed affection until his back is flat and she is on top of him. His palms move all over her, touching her face, back, hips, ass, at every possible point pushing her body down on his.

She kneels astride his lap, his erection beneath his trunks nudging her in a way that makes her pant as soon as she settles on him. Her mind hones on one simple fact: she wants that, _she wants him, _inside her. She wants to know him in this way, and let him know her, to welcome the contact that until this point she's tried to avoid.

Reaching for his trunks, she lifts enough to push them part way down, removing them only as far as his knees. Admittedly she's not gentle. She's also not delicate when she tries to tear her bikini bottoms off. He sits up, winding his arms around her and holding her body against his before she can remove them.

Her singular focus is on fucking Castle. Now that she's accepted it, why bother to play coy?

"Let me," he murmurs after kicking off his trunks. He lifts her a little higher as his fingers hook the last piece of her bikini and pull it lower, doing so in such a careful and erotically charged way, she wonders if he thinks he can get her off this way. In truth, it's almost possible. He understands how to touch her, or maybe he just wants this so much that each stroke he offers is so full of desire and excitement that it transfers between their bodies.

As he lifts her, her head bumps the ceiling, and he winces, "Sorry."

"Borrowed a boat from a Hobbit?" she asks, looking up at the ceiling like it, too, can be intimidated by her glare.

"Sy throws the best second breakfasts. I'll have to bring you to one some time," he offers as he flips her onto the bed.

Kneeling between her legs, he grabs her hips and drags her down the bed to him. Her arms are up, mimicking surrender and framing her head against the mattress. His hands run over the shape of her sides, tongue pausing to taste sea-salted skin as he can. When he reaches her shoulders, he presses his palms flat over each of her arms, pushing them down against the bed as he moves over her until his fingers reach hers, and he interlaces them.

She hooks her legs over his hips, winding them around him tightly to pull his body against hers. She wants the weight of him, the pressure of his body, the firm insistence of his cock on her in the moments right before he's finally inside her. As she presses herself against him, she can feel his urgency build.

Fumbling for the box of condoms, she realizes what a mess Castle made of their host's belongings, although even she doesn't care much about it for the moment. There will be time to clean up whatever mess they've made later.

Unable to find the box initially, her hand begins pawing around blindly. He settles between her thighs, chuckling as he holds up a single packet, "Patience," with a slightly cocky expression. Of course he has reason to be, her body is nearly pleading for him, she's sprawled out, naked, willing…he's got her right where he's wanted her.

This is all entirely pleasurable, completely enthralling really, but she's done waiting and playing will-they-won't-they. She tightens her legs' embrace around him, grabs his hips in her hands to hold him precisely where she wants, and she lifts her pelvis, sliding her slit along the underside of his shaft. His weight is mostly braced on his hands and knees, his face lowering to her neck. She feels his breath, hot and unsteady, against her, and the rumble of an erotic growl in his chest. The moans in the air, long and sultry, are her own.

He raises up, her legs unwilling to let go of him, his grip locked on her waist. He pulls her closer, his sex sliding through her folds while he watches, his blunt tip nudging her clit as she gropes for the wrinkles in the blankets.

Pausing, he pulls away a bit, thumbs on each of her inner thighs and moving higher until they meet at the joining of her legs. She's over foreplay, definitely, that is until his thumb parts her folds and takes a few wide circles around her clit. She jerks up, bracing her weight on her elbows. His expression is largely blank, his brain clouded with desire and singular focus to the task at hand. He isn't the only one ridiculously turned on at this point.

His left hand joins, palm up, his index finger gently breaching her body and sliding within. He's watching her though, staring intently at his hands and her sex, at the finger disappearing into her and the thumb swirling around her slippery button. Her head lulls, soaking up his visual and tactile scrutiny. As badly as she wanted him to hurry things along, this feels...wow. She isn't going to stop him just yet.

She feels the tension twisting in her, and knows she is already so incredibly close. "You want me to come on your hands or your cock, Castle?" she challenges, giving one final effort. She is certain this will work, will goad him into action. She feels almost like she shouldn't unravel on his hands during foreplay, although that's exactly what will happen if he keeps this up.

He looks into her eyes, the adoration no lesser because of the needful erotic pall that has descended. "Why not both?" he answers with a suggestive arch in his brow.

Before she can even respond and order him to do exactly what she wants him to do (since provoking didn't work) he adds a second finger, sliding it inside her, her body clenching down against the wonderful invasion. Like that's not enough, as if what he's already doing doesn't have her clearly on the edge, his other hand increases its role, his middle and forefingers joining his thumb on her clit. The three digits are all swirling around there, producing the most delightful continuous sensation.

Kate has to look, she doesn't even understand why, but his eyes leave her core and stare right into her as he presses the fingers inside her toward the front. It's the massaging quality that's making her toes curl, the way he's rubbing the walls inside her instead of just stabbing into her body. Her culmination implodes through her, her chest rising as her body spasms against him.

* * *

Beckett unravelling before him, his fingers inside her and on her, his eyes all over her, is better than almost anything. Better than any art or book, play or movie. He's feeling pretty damn good about himself (and how things are going with her) already. The best part isn't the way she's clamping down on him, or the way she says his name (with adoration, orgasmic pleasure, and maybe still irritation…which is kind of sexy in this context…hell, it's always sexy). Those things are all fantastic and thrilling, but his favorite part is the way she bolts upright as she comes, grabbing onto him like she will never let go. She seldom allows him to feel so needed.

He _wants _to be needed by her…just a little.

Her hands are holding onto him for dear life, she's sitting on his thighs, her hips pushing against him as she rides out the waves of her climax. Her mouth falls open against his, her pouty lower lip waiting to be captured, and he kisses her when he's able, trying to allow her to coast down slowly, eke every little extra pulse of delight from within her. She rests her cheek against his shoulder as she gradually settles.

He knows quite well the difference between casual and intimate sex. This…this is _not_ casual. She could have made this less personal (Beckett knows how keep someone at a distance with just a look or a turn of her shoulders), but it doesn't feel that way. As her most dedicated student, he knows how to read her.

He was there. She held on to him, connected with him, said his name (although he guesses that was a reaction more than a choice). He imagined she'd be the type to curse something crude when she lacked the ability to filter such responses. He never thought she'd softly pray his name afterwards, resting heavily against him, secure in his embrace.

He holds her still, a hand across her back, thumb caressing her so softly. He hopes she won't panic and run, because he loves the feeling of her right here like this. He's also so incredibly turned on that his patience is tested.

She smells like Kate, mixed with sex and sunscreen. He doubts he'll ever again smell that final item without thinking of her like this.

She sighs, and he's convinced he cannot physically become any harder than he is. The sense of satisfaction in his heart doesn't at all temper the demands of his body. The drive to be inside her is primal, even as the more evolved side of his brain reminds him not to rush her. The two energies battle within his predominantly still body.

Her fingers wander the mattress until they locate the condom that they previously dropped, her body still limply resting against his. Ripping the package with her teeth and leaning in, she kisses him, conveying what feels like appreciation for what was, and the remaining longing for things still to come.

Reaching between their bodies, she strokes his cock as she bites her lip in anticipation. Her touch doesn't feel like something requisite. No, she's watching his expression with the same fascination with which he looked at hers. Both of her hands are between them, pleasuring him as she rolls on the protection. He leans back, bracing on one hand, the other still on her lower back. He can't be expected to stop touching her.

"I want you inside me," she states assuredly, and he holds back the whoop of joy his body wants to make now that he knows she's not going to run off.

"When you're ready," he insists, although the sound of his voice betrays his need.

"You don't want me, Castle?" she flirts softly, glancing her lip against his ear as she whispers.

He replies, watching the chill it causes her, "You know the answer to that. Although maybe you don't know how much, or that I've wanted you almost every second since I met you."

"Why'd you go back with Gina then?" she whispers, her voice a little wounded.

Her question stuns him because he isn't prepared for it. This isn't a good time to give answers. His lips, loose and willing since his brain isn't present to play gatekeeper, reply, "Because I didn't think I could have you."

He's only aware enough to know he'll probably regret that answer later. Or maybe not, since she hooks her wrist behind his neck, nods slowly as she replies, "You can have me."

She wastes no more time with words, lifting her hips, one hand guiding his sex, and she shifts forward and begins to sink down on his body. She takes him inside her, steadily, never pausing, just continuing to swallow him up until he's completely buried. Her eyebrows are pulled up at the center, mouth agape, and her fingers tighten on his shoulder. She cries out, like a squeal of satisfaction, and she pushes her forehead to his as she waits for her responses to ease.

It almost makes him lose his tenuous control of his own body. She's still holding him (he loves it so much) and when her eyes open, he asks, "Did you just—"

"No!" she interjects too adamantly.

"—come again?" he finishes. He exudes confidence as he awaits her response. "Because it kinda felt like—"

"No!" She repeats, almost combatively. She rolls her eyes and confesses like she's sharing a secret with him, "Not exactly. But it felt _really_ good. So you've earned a few seconds of smugness."

"Seconds? That's it?" he scoffs, noting her easy although barely noticeable smile and hoping he's going to be able to have chances like these a lot in his future, moments staring into her eyes while he's shoved deep inside her.

"Time's up," she announces, and immediately her inner muscles flutter around him, and her hips circle. She crushes any remaining boasting instantly with pleasure. His eyes go half closed and he answers with a stretched groan that comes forth of its own power. "What's that, Castle?" she purrs.

He leans back further, looking down between them at her body's acceptance of his. She braces her hands on his abdomen between his hips, wrists toward the center of his body and fingers reaching out to the sides as she lifts away. As she takes him back within, she clamps down on his shaft from the inside in pulses that she seems to enjoy as much as he does.

He moves deep into her each time they join, and yet he still wants her closer. Sitting up a little higher, he surrounds her with his arms, bringing her nearer to him as she continues to take him. Her hand moves up his chest, growing her intimate physical knowledge of him.

She touches the space over his heart, her fingers trailing along his torso, and the feeling of being desired is as powerful as the sex itself.

It's overwhelming, this touch. He takes her face in his hand, turning her insistently toward him, kissing her with possessiveness he wouldn't verbally confess to. At least right now, she's his. He demands her focus. Even as his most immediate and driving needs are met, he wants to make damn sure she remembers this, knows who's inside her making her feel this way. There cannot be any mistake about this. He certainly won't forget.

His kiss is fervent, hungry, contrasting the deeply intimate (dare he say loving) way they're screwing.

Of course the intimate nature of this encounter does not preclude the feverish intent with which they claim each other. Kate is unrelenting, uninhibited. The strength of the pressure all through him grows unmanageable as he breaks the kiss. He sees the flare of arousal in her eyes as she shoves him back onto the mattress and begins to ride him. Hard.

He is crazy about all of these sides of her: the wanton, the tender, and the voracious. Whether she wants him to or not, he grabs a hip and caresses a breast because he needs to fill his hands with parts of her, like he can't possibly touch her enough. The response to his touch is instantaneous, and she calls out as their bodies collide, her hand bracing against the ceiling to prevent from crashing into it.

She tells him she's going to come, _she's so close, _and while he can't believe Beckett is the one saying such words in such ways to him, he's too tied up and strung out to even really comprehend it all. It feels so good, too good, and as he notices the way she grows more rigid and tight within, he realizes that he should hold back just a little longer. He doesn't want her this close, so close to coming with him, only to fall short.

At this point, stopping his own peak would be like preventing an avalanche with a toothpick. He summons the last of his resolve to pleasure her, and as his body releases its tension and accepts euphoria, he hears her join him.

He tries to look so he can watch her, see her orgasmic expression. He struggles just to open his eyes to see, his reflexes and muscles overtaken. What he sees in her mirrors what he feels: such pleasure that it is almost too much.

She twitches with the last few pulses as she buries her face against his neck and leans against him while he lies back flat. She follows his position like she's glued. He wants to hold her against him, but finds his arms won't move. He can barely remember how to breathe.

The words, "God, Castle," are spoken against him in an adorable little pant. "Yea," she giggles softly, a relieved expression. "Wow."

He's not capable of words just yet. His head and shoulders are off the edge of the bed, and she lifts up and tells him to move down so all of the blood doesn't rush to his head.

"I knew you were a biter," he eventually says like he's bragging as he rubs his shoulder, wrapping her back up in his embrace.

* * *

They spend minutes, largely silent minutes, there together. Rick can't stop running his hands up and down her, from the back of her head to the swell of her ass, over and over again. Maybe if he keeps touching her, he'll know for sure this is real. If she later pretends it didn't happen, he wants to still feel the truth.

The waves outside are rocking their boat. Funny, he didn't notice the thing swaying so much earlier. Finally he turns toward her, kisses her forehead, and says, "Things got kinda crazy. All of that boat rocking we did probably created some pretty intense waves. Think we did any damage on shore?" Talking more to himself than her, he mumbles as he tries to select the term, "A sex tsunami? Tsunamex? Sexnam…" He chooses one, looks at her with excitement in his eyes, and declares, "A tsexnami!" (He intentionally over-pronounces the "T").

She lifts her head and rests her chin on her hand on his chest, saying nothing but appearing amused as she waits for whatever else he's going to say.

"See, you let go, had some fun, and everything wasn't destroyed around you," he reassures more seriously, brushing a salty strand of hair from her face as he responds to the fears she shared with him earlier in the day on the jet ski.

"Not yet," she sighs. "But I'm not back at work yet. Sleeping with a consultant I work with on a regular basis is a clear ethics violation."

"To clarify… which thing is occurring on a regular basis? The working or the sleeping?"

She stares disapprovingly, refusing to answer.

"I'm going to assume it's the sleeping-slash-sex part _and_ the working part unless I hear differently," he explains.

She rolls away and slings her arm across her face, covering her eyes like she's not ready to entertain thoughts of fallout just yet. Beckett still seems worlds away from home, loose and sated, although reality threatens to encroach.

He assures, "Your secret is safe with me. No one has to know. I won't say a word."

"Oh…" she replies quietly, her arm dropping from her face. He sees the way she's processing the information, but the response isn't the _Thanks, Castle _or _I appreciate your discretion _that he'd predicted.

"Were you—"

"No. Good. That's great," she states sharply, the words in perfect staccato. "You don't have to worry about me, Castle. I won't tell anyone."

"I wasn't worried. If—"

"Wow, the boat really is bobbling," she interrupts with an entirely different subject, sitting up like she's answering a call. "Better go make sure there isn't a storm. If there is, we better get back to shore."

"Kate?" he questions, feeling like he missed the mark at some point, although he doesn't understand how or why.

"Be back," she smiles perfunctorily and nods after she's dressed again in her bikini, looking around like she wishes she had more to wear.

She returns with a few bottles of water from the cooler, shirt and shorts claimed on deck and back on her. He can already feel the way she's pulled back a little, reeled in the connection she feels. She is talking about the weather (she doesn't see signs of a storm) and a line of sailboats in the distance, and plenty of things that have nothing to do with them or what just happened.

He's still naked in the bed on top of the covers. After handing him water, she begins to straighten the mess from when he tossed the cabin searching for condoms.

"That's cute," he notes.

"What is?" she asks a bit awkwardly, continuing to tidy.

"The way you got dressed just so I could take your clothes off again."

Her eyes dart over at him, but she is focused on the responsibilities at hand.

He gets up, walks on his knees to the edge of the bed next to her. Rick lifts her, dragging her along as he flops back down. "Stay in bed," he requests after they've landed.

"Castle, I need to—"

"In a minute," he adds, taking the items from her hands and tossing them away. He finds that spot on her neck, the one that seems like an 'on' switch.

"I should really…" she begins, pausing once her body is nearly swayed. Shifting her mood and her posture, Kate presses toward him in eager response.

His fingers pop the top two buttons on her shirt. "I promise I'll help clean up the mess before we go. For now…" his voice grows more insistent, "…stay here with me. I don't like to play alone either." His words recall the flirty suggestions she'd made that morning when she first woke.

Her lips curl up at the edges as her body relaxes to his. "Well…I suppose I could be convinced."

* * *

Castle brings the blankets from the bed up on deck that evening. "We're going to have to wash or replace them anyway, might as well use them," he explains as he lays them out in the back of the boat between the bench seats.

Hours later, they're still in that spot, clothed but lazy, talking about trips they've taken, other things to do in the area, even movies and books, (anything but what's happening between them). Out on the water, away from artificial light, there are innumerably more stars visible than from on land. In the city, the glow is so strong that some nights it's hard to find the stars at all.

He is lying next to her, using her upper arm like a pillow. Her elbow is bent, her fingers absently stroking his hair as they float.

"It's beautiful out here," she says as she stares up.

"Certainly is," he responds, his eyes going to her.

She huffs.

"What's wrong?" he pushes gently.

"Nothing!"

He swallows worriedly even as he tries to look unworried, deciding to broach the subject they'd been avoiding. After all, they couldn't pretend like nothing happened forever, could they? "You regret it? The sex, I mean?"

"No," she shakes her head, and then adds again, confirming, "No regrets."

"Because I do _not_ regret it. Not at all. Not even the teeniest, tiniest little bit."

"Good," she answers simply.

"Because it was great. Really, for me personally, more than great. _Amazing_."

He stares, waiting, but not patiently, for her response.

She studies him. Her answer is more succinct, "Me too."

"As far as I'm concerned...the biggest problem we have is how long it's been since the last time."

"_That's_ our biggest problem?" she chuckles, rolling onto her side. He quickly follows suit, facing her. "Wonder what we could do to fix that?" she asks, her eyes attempting innocence that only makes her seem guiltier.

"I don't know," he sighs comically, as if he's truly baffled.

She fondles the lowest buttons on his shirt. "I guess until we figure it out…we could make some waves?" she proposes.

"Another tsexnami?" he asks, eternally hopeful that she'll play along.

"Sure," she allows.

"I thought you'd never ask," he replies, rolling even closer and waiting to be pushed away. She doesn't push him away, her arm draping over his side as she wiggles closer.

He's falling for her (if he hasn't completely fallen already). Of course he's not going to tell her that, not yet, fearing it would scare her off. He wouldn't blame her for feeling that way; it scares him, too.

He absorbs the way she touches him. He notes the passion behind her kiss, the way she seems to be exhibiting some of the possessiveness for him that he feels for her. As he hears and senses her breath against his ear, joined by a weighty, pleasurable sigh, he is determined to earn more than just a spot in her bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 6

By the time they return to the marina and retrieve their belongings, it is nearly 1 in the morning. Already he has questions about whether she feels enough for him, and if he feels too much for her. He wonders when she's planning on leaving to return to work, and if the things that have happened will prompt her to leave sooner. All he wants to do is be home in bed, her naked body next to his, so close the tiny hairs on her skin tickle him when she breathes.

He checks his phone on the way back to his house just in case Alexis or his Mother need anything. The moment it is powered on, he remembers why he didn't bring it with him on the boat. There are six messages, five from his mother. The last message informs him of an 'emergency,' that has made Martha too upset to sleep, so she'll wait up for his call.

One of the other messages is from the repair shop where Beckett's bike is being fixed. Unfortunately they left him no details, only asking him to call to discuss the repairs. He'll have to wait until morning to talk to them. He hopes the bike isn't finished already.

Kate is nestled back on her side of the car, tired and introspective (even for her). He prefaces his late night phone call with an explanation that he's calling home to address a 'Martha emergency.'

Beckett understandingly replies, "It could be important."

"Could be. But I seriously doubt it," he says as they exchange smiles. Rick really wishes he wasn't ending such a memorable day with her this way, but he'd rather call during the ride and get it out of the way so he doesn't have to call her once they're back at home.

His mother's emergency is nothing of the sort, some issue she's having with one of her workshops, and she keeps him on the phone for the remainder of the drive. Of course Martha eventually steers the conversation toward Gina (she heard something about them splitting up), and what he's "up to now." It's easy to see that the real 'emergency' is her need to pry. He deftly handles the questions, for the most part. He doesn't mention Beckett, of course, first of all because he'd promised discretion, and secondly because his mother's enthusiasm would be so blatant if she knew the pair were alone in the Hamptons that Beckett would surely hear the reaction from across the car.

He watches the way Kate absently balances one knuckle on the car window as she stares out. Her hand rocks on that knuckle-fulcrum as they stop and start, and she appears to be completely focused on that point. He considers inviting her to lean over on him since he already misses holding her, but she doesn't look at him long enough to give a signal.

When they're finally back at his place, he tries desperately to get his mother to hang up as he sees Kate heading straight for the stairs. "Just a minute," he says to the phone, muting the line and calling out, "Beckett?"

She turns back from the second step, and answers understandingly, "Don't want to keep Martha waiting. I need a nice, hot shower anyway."

"Okay," he replies, trying to decide if he should ask to join her (sure, he's tired, but not too tired to soap her up…or at least watch) or say something about the day they shared (because it was better than he'd ever dreamed it could be).

He's not really sure what he's allowed and not allowed to say, so he doesn't say anything. Then he wonders why he's suddenly so committed to following her rules regarding acceptable conversation when breaking them is traditionally something he enjoys. His inappropriate comments are a cornerstone of their relationship.

"Kate?" he says at a mere whisper, but she is listening carefully enough to hear.

She speaks first. "Today was great. I had a really good time."

"I did, too. We could do today-like things again tomorrow," he suggests, hopefully.

Her answer is the worst kind, because he doesn't know what it means. She looks over him, doe eyes sleepily on him, leans down from her step and places a sweet, unhurried kiss on his cheek.

After the last sliver of her shadow disappears at the top of the steps, he's still staring at the empty space where she'd been. Suddenly he remembers his phone, nearly fumbling it onto the ground before he unmutes it to finish the call with Martha.

* * *

Beckett stands under the blasting shower, steam billowing around her. She tries to get all of the particles off of her skin and out of her hair. There seem to be a ridiculous number of grains of sand and salt that have decided to attach themselves to her.

The shower feels fantastic, but she's so very tired. In many ways she feels content, sated, but she's even more confused than she is tired. Sleeping with him was supposed to be guiltless and wild, a chance to throw caution to the wind. And afterwards, he said what should have been the perfect thing: _I won't tell anyone. _His words were supposed to be music to her ears (she values her privacy, especially at work).

So why did it bother her to hear them?

By all accounts, she should have been thrilled, and yet the realization that what is happening is a secret to be guarded, hurts her. And it bothers her that it hurts.

It isn't his fault; she suggested quite clearly that she was letting her guard down, trying to let go, be impulsive, and have fun. It isn't like she alluded to this being anything more than a no strings kind of situation.

She doesn't want to get all starry eyed over a little sex. She's too practical for that.

_But what fantastic sex._

They are so damn good together. She's been with guys for months and months and never had this kind of simpatico, a compatibility that makes them so well-matched it's a bit unnerving. She isn't sure how two such different people can be so attuned physically, but the proof is there in her shaky muscles and satisfied body.

_We are better at sex than we are at solving cases together, and we are really, really good at solving cases, _she considers.

Grabbing another hefty glob of conditioner, she acknowledges the fact that she doesn't want this thing with Castle to be over. The only unfortunate part is the degree to which her heart is involved (in spite of her best efforts). She doesn't look forward to how it will feel when she hears he's moved on. That is the part she dreads: the pain she'll experience when he's back at work, eluding to some woman he romanced the night before or smirking proudly as he mentions a date he has planned.

It's gonna hurt like it did back when she was about to take a chance with him...until Gina showed up. That day it felt like the universe was punishing her for even the thought of having feelings for him. She vowed after that not to make the same mistake twice.

In truth, even after Castle and Gina fell into ruins while Kate stood on his porch and watched, that memory still aches. It's why she'll continue to hide her feelings as best as she can. If she's going to get her heart broken, she doesn't want him to know about it.

In some ways it would have been simpler if he'd been a jerk after they finally slept together. That would have made it easier to push him away. But he wasn't; he was…_sweet._ Each time they were together, she felt his touch, tender, appreciative, affirming. That fucks with her head a little, because in those moments, it doesn't feel like _just sex_, and that feeling makes her heart stay invested. He probably has no idea of the multitude or intensity of the feelings she's keeping hidden.

Keeping those feelings under wraps and tucked away is truly exhausting.

Finally stepping out from the tub, she hears the pipes tick while she dries, and thinks he's probably in his own shower. Her head is too tempted by sleep to think much more, but she wonders if she should go to his room, slip into his bed, and wait for him.

Would doing so expose her too much?

She wonders if some of Gina's things are still in his room on the nightstand, and doesn't like the idea of slipping into another woman's place in his bed.

So she dries herself, wrapping a towel around her body and one around her head, and goes into her room. Sitting against the footboard, she stares at her closed bedroom door and tries to figure out what to do. As much as she wants to protect herself, she doesn't want him to feel turned away. She's also not quite willing to put herself in a position to be rejected.

Her brain screams at her to rest, her muscles slowly giving up the fight to keep her upright. She decides to open her bedroom door and leave the rest to him, hoping he'll accept the invitation and join her. She already misses the closeness.

With her last bit of alertness, she hangs her towels and drops into the bed, her legs shifting over the soft sheets until she finds a comfortable spot.

* * *

As soon as Castle finishes his shower, he quickly puts on his pajamas and decides to see if Kate is still up. He'd like to talk her into sleeping next to him. An already addicted part of his brain hopes that she'll want him again, but he's so entirely worn out that such an idea is a bit outlandish, at least for the moment. He wants to sleep beside her anyway. She seemed pretty tired, too, so maybe he can just snuggle up behind her, share a long rest, and see what happens after their bodies have a few hours to recharge. He's definitely okay with a near dawn follow-up.

The space in front of him feels vacant without her. He misses her eyes on him, the way her lips move, being inside her, the feeling of her skin on his, even the moments where her fingers danced through his hair as they lazed.

He walks down the hall toward her room, and feels reaffirmed as he realizes her door is open. Peering around the corner, he ponders the differences between them since he stood in that same spot earlier that morning.

Although in some ways, what has _really_ changed? Sure they had sex, fantastic sex, the kind you don't ever forget.

_We are better matched sexually than we are as a crime fighting duo, and that's saying a lot_, he tells himself.

He still doesn't know if he should enter her room. Is he supposed to act like nothing has changed, pretend like everything they shared doesn't affect him the way that it does?

Light spills into her room from the adjoining bathroom, a light soap-scented mist still lingers, and he sees the outline of her body beneath the covers, remembering the times he was touching that very outline not so long ago. Rick wonders what, if anything, she's wearing under those covers. He remembers so clearly he can still feel her against the pads of his fingers, still hear her sounds in his ear, still sense the weight of her body on his.

"Beckett?" he whispers loudly, trying to rouse her. She doesn't respond, she doesn't even budge, so he tries again, "Kate? You awake?"

He takes two steps into the room, intent on sliding into the covers behind her, but wonders if she'll be angry at him. After all, he isn't invited, and just because she had sex with him doesn't mean he's allowed to get into her bed.

_She didn't really put any stock in that whole 'international waters' idea, did she?_

That is some tenuous thread to hang an excuse on, even for him.

_Why is this so damn complicated? _He writes females with depth and nuance, understands them well enough to create their characters convincingly, he writes about _this _female! He should be far more capable of understanding her motivations and interpreting her actions.

He says her name again, walks heavily up and down the hall, even taps on the door, but she doesn't respond at all. And he really does _not_ want to sleep anywhere else.

Finally he trudges downstairs to the sofa and lies down, clicking on a movie but passing out before the opening credits are over.

* * *

When he wakes, he hears rain pouring heavily enough to create slapping sounds on the pavement outside, and occasionally on the windows when the wind picks the fat drops up and carries them into the glass. He also thinks he hears the occasional sound from the kitchen. Maybe Beckett is awake but trying to stay quiet. Or maybe she packed up, called for a ride and is already half way back home.

He definitely smells coffee, but that could be from the automatic pot rather than her intervention.

Just in case she's still there, he briefly calls the repair shop about her bike, then puts his phone on silent and leaves it on the end table (just to be completely sure it doesn't interrupt them).

He gets up, walking quietly out to the kitchen, and there he sees Beckett. Largely he masks his excitement upon discovering her there. She is padding across the floor, mug of coffee in hand, her nose in a book. She sits at the small table in the kitchen and brings her heels up to the edge of the chair. She supports her left arm on her tented legs, hand behind the book, thin fingers draped down over the top edge like a clipboard for her material. She hasn't stopped reading, so he isn't certain if she's noticed him yet.

Rick enjoys this glimpse of relaxed Beckett in the morning in her loose pajama shirt and little shorts, bare feet, hair quickly tied up on top of her head, held in place by…something.

"Morning," she says, although her focus on her book is uninterrupted.

"Hey," he replies. "You're still here."

Her stare leaves the book and she slowly turns her head to face him. She tries and fails to hide a flood of hurt bewilderment in her eyes. "Was I supposed to leave?"

"No! Absolutely not," he answers without a hint of nonchalance. He rushes over, sitting in the chair next to hers and leaning on the table. "I wanted you to stay. I mean I _still_ want you to stay."

"Okay." She bobs her head and returns to her book, but the relief on her face is evident.

"Whatcha reading?" he asks as he saunters to the coffee pot, repressing the urge to scoop her up and kiss her.

"Oh, it's true crime. A couple of weeks ago I met one of the investigators who worked this case, might be moving to the 12th, so I was curious."

"_She_ a kindred spirit?"

"Not exactly. _He's _one hell of an investigator, though. And we both know what it's like to be written about." Her eyes narrow accusingly at him for a moment before returning to the page.

Castle feels envy, again, already, just from the thought of her talking to another investigator. He thinks of a couple of other male crime solvers that have orbited her, men he's felt a lot of uncomfortably roiling sensations about. He considers calling Ryan and Esposito for intel since he hadn't been there himself to monitor the situation. Yet another reason to regret leaving town the way he had. He returns to the table, takes the spot directly across from her so he can face her.

At least for now, Beckett has chosen him. She's in her jammies in _his_ kitchen, looking quite at home and cozy there. So that's reassuring.

"What's it about?" he asks.

Without looking up, she replies, "You probably remember the case, it was all over the news when it happened. A lawyer killed one of his mistresses, took her body out to sea off the Jersey coast in a cooler and dumped her. They built a case. Got a conviction. Impressive stuff."

"I see what's really going on here," he declares knowingly. "You're reading that book because of the suggestion I made yesterday about us getting _cozy _in the fishing cooler? Plotting revenge?"

She glances up over the book, and he can see her smirk even though her mouth is covered. He's mentioned it now, the previous day's events, right out in the open while they're back on dry land. He wouldn't be surprised if she acted like she didn't know what he was talking about, or if she told him to shut up.

In spite of those possibilities, he's hopeful that her response will shed a little light on how she feels about things.

"No," she replies, dragging out the word, eyes dropping again behind the book, "nothing to do with your suggestion. Bought this book before I left." She continues like her words are perfectly average, "One of my favorite authors is taking _forever_ to put out a new book, so I have to resort to true crime. He should really get to work."

"_One_ _of_ your favorites?" he asks, hand covering his wounded heart with feigned offense.

She lowers the book more now, and asks incredulously, "You're going to dig through the obvious compliment and concentrate on the perceived insult?"

"Who else is on that list, and in what order?"

She shakes her head and brings the book back up over the lower three-quarters of her face.

"Shouldn't you be taking a break from crime?" he insists.

"I am," she responds without elaboration.

"So this is personal, not business. Maybe, since we're near the ocean, you're trying to figure out how to hide my body. You're looking for tips."

"That's ridiculous," she deadpans. Then she adds slyly, "I planned all of that two years ago." She's proud of her response, he can tell as her eyes play with his over the printed paper.

"Tell me," he leans his forearms on the table.

She carefully notes her place with a receipt she's using as a marker before she deposits the book on the table. "I'm kidding."

He shakes his head. "You see the mistakes people make, know how to avoid them. I hold the record for the most irritating person you work with, maybe the most frustrating person you _know_, so you've considered it. Tell me, Detective Beckett, how would you dispose of my body?"

He can see the way she's already considering her words, knows she's thought about such things, not about him, necessarily, but about the perfect murder.

"It's your job to think like a killer, not mine," she avoids one more time.

He waits, knowing she'll cave and tell him.

She does.

"Fine. I wouldn't dispose of the body. Too many opportunities to make mistakes, leave evidence on yourself, on the body, definitely in any vehicle used to transport it. Plus with private surveillance, traffic, toll, and highway cameras, it's too easy to be recorded. That's how you get caught. Think of how many times the evidence that solves the crime is left while trying to hide what happened."

"So it's better to face what happened directly, not try to hide it or cover it up?" he locks in with her, certain she isn't missing his double meaning.

"In my perfect _crime_...yea."

"Go on."

"I'd be patient. Wait for the right time, the right case, the right suspect. Someone particularly loathsome. If possible, I'd get them to actually pull the trigger, or commit the murder, probably during the investigation or a subsequent arrest. I could replace that 'Writer' vest you wear with something that wouldn't stop a well thrown rock. If they don't take the shot, I'd do it myself with their weapon or MO. Plant a little evidence, but not too much…you don't want anything too obvious. Of course I'd be 'devastated,' hell bent on revenge to take out whatever sick bastard killed my partner…the one I didn't want but ultimately came to appreciate, blah, blah. The Captain wouldn't get in my way. I'd tell him I could handle it. As lead I could steer the investigation."

"What about the indefatigable Dr. Parish and her findings?"

"Lanie!? _Oh please!_ She was probably the one who encouraged me to go for it," Kate replies, her voice nearly cracking at the end as she fights her smile. "And I think we both know Perlmutter's ready and willing to help with any crime where you're the victim."

"Sometimes I forget just how many friends I've made at the NYPD," Castle muses.

"I guess you should consider yourself lucky I don't feel like killing you."

"I am definitely a lucky man." He leans further onto his elbows, bringing himself closer even though the table is between them. "Can I confess something?"

"Why not."

"All of the thought you've put into this? Very arousing."

She snickers. Letting his comment roll off her, she says, "I already know how you'd kill me."

"Do you?" he asks with intrigue, sitting back in his chair. His suggestion was deflected, but he wasn't really shot down, so he's still hopeful.

"Yea," she takes a sip of her coffee, then explains, "You'd drop me off the back of a jet ski in shark infested waters."

Filled with hopeful excitement, he adds, "_International_ shark infested waters?"

Although he expects another parry, she replies, "Apparently I have a certain affinity for jurisdictional grey areas."

He pauses, his words stuck in his throat as he realizes she has not tried to deny the multiple rounds they shared. In fact, if this were an interrogation, he'd consider it a confession (although he's not yet certain if it's an admission against interest or a voluntary acknowledgement).

"We could go back out today," he answers, eagerness showing.

She stares out the window at the rain that batters and the wind that contorts anything that bends. "Doesn't look like a good day to be out on the ocean."

"Okay. Well, there's always international air space. Do the same rules apply there?"

"You going to borrow a plane and fly us somewhere?" she scoffs.

"No, definitely not. I would be _way_ too busy to fly the plane. Also I don't know how. I could hire a pilot. You mind an audience?" An idea dawning, he questions, "Are non-extradition countries also exciting to you?"

Finally he provokes the slight flush he wants to see on her neck. Her voice betrays her interest. "Seems like an awful lot of work."

"Whatever it takes to make you feel comfortable," he adds. "If you need some kind of arbitrary line to pretend that—"

"I don't need an arbitrary _line_," she argues, sloughing off her playfulness. For a moment, her frequent frustration is back. But after a few seconds the irritation eases into uncertainty. He watches as she reconsiders, "Or maybe…I dunno. Maybe I do."

Perhaps she's actually going to talk to him about this instead of avoiding it.

"I don't want to mess things up at the precinct," she quietly confesses.

"I think the precinct will survive."

"I also don't want to destroy my career."

"You think you're the first detective to sleep with a consultant?" He asks. "There are probably people out there sleeping with subordinates, maybe even suspects, as we speak. That's way worse."

"That doesn't make me feel any better. And the people who do that with impunity …are _men_. It's different. I hate it, but that's reality. I'd be a joke passed around the station."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

"And what about us? Our partnership? If we have boundaries, it contains things."

"I'm not sure this can be contained," he flirts, his tone light and joking even though his meaning is as severe as the grave. "Look, I like working with you. You _hate_ that you _like_ working with me, but you like it anyway. Since we both want to keep what we have, we'll make sure it doesn't get weird."

Even as he says the words, he knows in the back of his mind that it isn't that simple, but he's willing to overlook that to keep this new personal side of their relationship going. He wonders, "Do we have to figure that all out now? You only have few days off, might as well enjoy them while we can."

"You want to…keep things going?" she clears her throat. It's so adorable how she tries to look completely calm and collected, even when he can tell she isn't.

"Hell yeah. Don't you?"

"I don't know," she equivocates, then purposefully places her palms flat on the table and admits, "I really do. It was good—"

"—I know! Right?"

"—amazing—"

"—epically amazing."

A slightly embarrassed but happy look blooms across her face, a look he instantly and unintentionally copies. They hold the moment for flash of eternity.

He suggests, "If you want a line of demarcation, you have one…we're not working, I'm not your consultant right now. I'm on research hiatus, you're on vacation—"

"You should get some writing done."

"Why?" he asks, like the change in subject gives him whiplash.

"Because you're a writer. I'm no expert, but I _think_ writing is what writers do. Isn't that why you're here? I'm gonna walk down to the market, grab something to grill for lunch."

"It's pouring."

"Supposed to clear out by tonight. And the grill is under roof, so—"

"Yea, I know. I put it there. I mean you're going to walk in that rain?"

"I think I can handle it."

"You that desperate to get away from me? Can't control yourself?"

"I can," she argues coolly before she continues, "Although I was hoping I didn't have to."

He _loves _that answer, and it shows.

She comes around the table, pausing in front of him and leaning in, bracing her palms on the arms of his chair. "If I go now, you can write. That way I'm not solely to blame when you miss your deadline. Later, we can stay in, enjoy the rest of the day. No interruptions. No need to get dressed between…_activities_."

"Sounding slightly better."

"Good," she succinctly replies, swiftly kissing him before she stands upright.

"Still not in the mood to write, though."

He pushes himself to a standing position, and she backs away, saying, "I'll be back."

Castle begins the hunt, the one he's always wanted to have, out of the kitchen and into the living room. Until these recent days, the pursuit has been one of words, suggestions, subtle touches and not-so-subtle looks. Freed of those restrictions, he doesn't have to subdue his intention to make chase.

"Let me go do my running first, then I'm all yours," she bargains, intentionally walking backward, a cautionary hand up that's supposed to keep him back, but clearly is not calming his reaction.

"Tell me why you're so interested in leaving?" he presses. "Secret phone call? Meeting with a shadowy government informant?"

"No."

"I know something's going on," he continues, and when she pauses, he reaches out and grabs her around her waist and pulls her back to him.

It's clear she isn't fighting him, if she were, he'd probably be on the ground. That complicity makes it hotter, the way she isn't keeping the distance she typically keeps (even if she's pretending she wants to). And she's laughing, literally giggling in his arms as she's wriggling like she wants to get away. There is something about her joy that's a drug to him.

"Castle, I need to go," she argues between laughs, "And you have a book to write…"

"Don't care about the book right now," he says against her neck, locating that spot he discovered yesterday and hopes to return to time and again. The one that makes her legs go to jelly. He figures if he can get her to this point, he's won.

But she somehow removes his legs from beneath him, and he finds himself firmly seated on the sofa.

"Don't forget who you're dealing with," she proudly states.

"Why would I want to?"

Kate grabs him by the backs of his knees, pulling his legs forward so he's slouched. She sits low on his thighs. She leans closer with patient progression. He braces for whatever sultry words she's about to speak, but she asks at a whisper, "Why didn't you come into my room last night?"

It takes him time to cut through the dozens of layers of arousal and confusion to digest her question. "Dammit, I _knew _I should have tried it," he begins, his hand reaching out to hold her forearm. "I started to. I _wanted_ to."

"But you didn't. The door was open, but you slept on the sofa."

He wishes she understood how much thought and effort went into making a decision about whether or not to join her in her bed. "I wasn't sure if you wanted me to. An open door doesn't imply consent," he finally answers.

"No. But it does imply 'come in.' You need a written invitation?" she (half) teases.

He shakes his head to one side, like he's going to say no, but holds back. "I mean…yea. At this point, maybe. You need lines, I need invitations."

She looks at him like he's entirely mad.

He quickly continues, "Look…you keep running away and—"

"No, I don't," she indignantly counters.

"You do. The other night after we kissed."

"Gina called. Was I supposed to hang out and listen? Ex-wives-slash-very-recent-ex-girlfriends are kind of a mood killer."

"I would have been more than happy to call her back the next day."

"But you didn't silence your phone after the first call. Maybe you wanted the interruption. If you didn't want to be bothered, you would have silenced it or shut it off."

"An oversight I did not repeat on the boat. And what about last night after we got back—"

"You were on the phone with your mother!"

Preparing to argue, he pauses as he addresses the pattern, "I really need to ditch my phone, become a Luddite."

"In your defense, she said it was an emergency," Kate replies with a chuckle, clearly considering all things Martha that were likely entailed in that call.

"What about today? Can't blame my phone for this one. We barely start to talk about what's going on here, and suddenly you tell me you're worried about my deadline, and you're going out. You expect me to ignore the fact that you're open to the idea of the two of us sharing some…_personal time…_and sit down to write like it's a perfectly normal day?"

"That wasn't running away," she argues, sounding a bit annoyed, which is not his intention for the moment.

"Alright. Then what was it? At least be honest about it, Beckett. If you don't—"

"I was trying to do something nice!" she snaps in a not-so-nice tone. Then, still annoyed, she continues, "You took me to the picnic, out on the water...and I know you're supposed to be working on your book. I wanted to thank you for all you did for me. So I thought I'd grill some dinner, make dessert, while you got some writing done."

"Oh…" he pauses, completely taken aback. "Thanks," he says, the words growing from a very genuine place, although he still suspects that she's playing it safe with him.

"The point is, I'm not running away, okay?"

"That's good. And you know what? I'm kind of flattered."

Returning to her point, she clearly enunciates, "And I _wanted _you to come join me last night. I didn't wait up because I was so tired. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow."

"I tried to make enough noise to wake you up." Puffing his chest, he adds, "Wow...must have been quite a day yesterday. Wonder what—or _who_—you did to tire yourself out."

She fake scowls at his momentary posturing before she offers, "If you don't remember, maybe we can revisit the highlight reel later."

"I'd enjoy that."

"You know what?"

She scoots subtly forward on his lap, enough to make thinking even more of a challenge. He wonders if she knows how difficult it is to form thoughts with her on his lap. Does she do that intentionally, or does she simply not understand the kind of effort focusing in such situations requires?

"What?" he asks, his fingers very carefully, very precisely, shoving the bottom edge of her shirt up over her hips.

She wriggles ever closer on his lap, putting an even greater damper on his thoughts.

"I really like…" she pauses to consider, looking for the word she wants, but settling on, "…_this_." Never in the history of language has such an ordinary word been said with such extraordinary implication. She hooks her wrists behind his neck.

"I like it, too…_this_," he replies, watching his hands slide around her body, locking his wrists at the small of her back, before looking into her eyes.

"We don't have to figure everything out now. I could waste the next day or two trying to decide _how_ to handle it, or I could just…," she raises an eyebrow and looks down his body, "handle it."

"I should probably mention that I talked to the repair shop about your bike," he confesses, his fingers pausing to pinch the downy fabric at the lower hem of her shirt. It's so soft and cozy, and yet he hates that it's still covering her.

"What did they say?" she asks while she gathers his tee shirt and lifts it at the front, her hands resting low on his abdomen, moving over him with gentle exploration. (She's gentle with him a remarkably small amount of the time they're touching, and it feels really nice).

"They said the tank and handlebars were custom, some kind of limited release thing."

"Yea."

"They need to special order the parts in order to replace them exactly. It will take a few extra days. Three or four."

"How much more does that cost?"

"You deserve to have it correctly restored. The question is…can you wait that long? They offered to arrange a ride back to the city, but…I told them…" he pauses, looks right at her and says, "you could just stay here with me." She's holding his heart in her hands too often lately.

"I could?"

"Actually," he feels so damn vulnerable confessing this, but he does, because it seems like when he isn't exact, she assumes the worst, "I'd _like it…_ if you stayed here with me."

"Would you?" she asks, slaying the space between them so her lips can brush his.

"But that's up to you." His kiss finds her, responding in kind, all of the typical responses flooding him with an atypical meteor impact-sized punch.

"Probably should get the right parts." The kiss deepens for a moment, but she pulls away enough to speak and says friskily, "For the sake of the bike."

"Obviously," he concurs. His touch roams over her shirt, only after ample ambling settling on her breast. The softness of her shirt between them, the feeling of her in his hand, nipple hard, surrounding flesh yielding beneath his touch, it's all so much. Sure his near obsession is in some ways biological, his caveman brain screaming, "boobs!" even while his heart writes sonnets of adoration. The caveman and the poet agree, as far as women go, she is truly phenomenal.

"You were really great yesterday," she says, clawing through the fog.

"Thanks," he replies with the slightest whimper at the end as her hands move across his chest, her nails scraping just enough at all the right places. "You were unbelievable."

"You're really giving…considerate. At least when it comes to sex."

"I reserve it…considerateness, I mean. Just for that," he tries to joke. She may use distance as a defense, but he uses humor.

"I came two more times than you did."

"Who's counting?" he asks, then beams. He was definitely counting. "Although I think it was more like three—"

"That one didn't count," she argues, going from seductive to no-nonsense with the flip of a coin.

He chuckles, "Fine. Two." He adds under his breath as if he's speaking to an unseen co-conspirator, "and a half."

She says, her tone more affectionate than lusty, "You didn't rush me, even when you clearly wanted to. I really appreciate that…your patience. Your thoughtfulness, and attention." He still doesn't answer, eyes on the way she looks in his lap. "But it is sometimes okay to relax and enjoy, too."

"Believe me, I enjoyed," he replies, attempting to channel his typically assured confidence.

"You need a chance, too. A chance to have fun without trying to impress or satisfy anyone else. No need to perform or do anything except…feel."

She tugs off his shirt, and he pauses to consider what is happening. She braces her hands on his legs, lifts her knees to the center and lowers herself between his thighs.

His mouth falls open slightly, required by the increased force of each exhalation. She taps his hip and pulls down his pajama pants (he's grateful for elastic, and the fact that little effort is required to remove them).

"You don't have to…" he starts, regretting his words as thoroughly as he feels he needs to say them.

She slides up through his legs until they're eye-to-eye, offering the type of slow, heavy kiss that makes him want more of all of her. When she pulls away, she replies, "Don't _have _to. _Want _to."

His head bobs, his whole being ridiculously compliant to whatever she does or says or wants.

She slides back down, slowly, hands moving into his boxers.

"When it comes to sex, I don't do things I don't want to do. You shouldn't either. If I do something with you, or to you…it's because I want to. Okay?"

"Sure," he replies, his voice rough as sandpaper, trying to listen through the haze she seems to create in his head. It's clear she intends to continue, and he's capable of no other thoughts but the possibility of her mouth on him.

"So if I reach into your boxers, and stroke you until you're nice and hard and ready for me…it's because that's what I want to do."

"Got it." He can barely manage even those words.

"And if I want to get down between your knees so I can suck your cock …well—" she pauses suddenly, studying him, "Castle, you okay?"

"Yep," he barely manages.

"You don't like it when I talk like that?" she worriedly asks, looking momentarily mortified.

"I do! Yes! Definitely, I definitely like that," he explains as best as he can. "I just didn't think—imagine—you'd…" he shakes his head to stop rambling. "I like it. Trust me. Don't stop."

"Well, I'll have to stop at some point. It's impolite to talk with my mouth full," she teases, her sexy smile converting to an all-out grin as she fully enjoys his reaction. It's plain to see she's put a fork in the last of his functioning brain cells, and that clearly pleases her.

She presses her hands firmly into his thighs, completely unrushed, the power of her grip making every inch of movement the center of his focus. When she progresses far enough, she just scarcely brushes over his erection, the weight behind her touch gone, prompting his pelvis to lift to seek it.

She strokes and explores his sex with her parted lips, his silk boxers still covering him, breathing and placing open mouthed kisses that make him feel weak and powerful at the same time.

His erection bobs as she pulls down his boxers, and she captures him between her lips. He didn't expect her mouth to swoop down over him, taking most of him inside, immediately sucking with the most fantastic pressure after so little preamble.

He wheezes a bit as he sharply takes in air, and tries to hold onto his dignity just a little. It isn't a manly sound, but he wouldn't mind it if she made him repeat such feats of unmanliness whenever she wants to.

Her hands massage him, guiding his sex to her mouth at the angle she wants. There is no way he's going to last if she keeps this up. And it's not like he has frustration to blame, they had sex three times the day before. Just before he pops, she backs off a little, changing up the pressure and pace enough to let him regain some control.

It gives him time to catch his breath, to reel himself in. If she wanted to get his attention, demonstrate how easily she can put him right where she wants him, she's already succeeded.

She eases, taking the time to lick, taste, and swirl with her tongue. Her fingers climb and tickle up over his abdomen, nails lightly trailing, palms roaming. He feels it, not just the talents she's sharing, but the care she shows, the fact that she is devoted to making him feel wonderful.

As his breath steadies, his right hand reaches out and holds her face. He brushes her hair back, soaking in the vision before he has to concentrate less because he'll surrender any final vestiges of patience. He doesn't cave to that innate urge to grab the back of her head, to demand more, even though he's barely under his own control. He's going to enjoy every second, soak up the attention she offers, appreciate what she's doing and how unimaginably good she is at it.

He keeps his hand there, his thumb on her cheek, needing more contact even when technically his most notable needs are being met.

The muscles in his abdomen, back, and thighs are clenching ridiculously in response, the whole of his body under her influence. When her eyes meet his, it sends a renewed surge through him, making him feel so tight it's like he's hovering above the cushion beneath.

The more caring and reassuring his touch on her, the more feverishly she drives him back over the edge. She hums a sound like he's enticing, and whether she truly enjoys this or not, she makes him believe she does. Her desire and enthusiasm make this oh so much more enjoyable.

She doesn't relent until he does, his excitement coming to a crescendo in a burst that leaves him weak and spineless, so at ease it's surprising he doesn't melt into the cracks between the cushions of the sofa.

* * *

Kate doesn't wait long before she decides to go. After all, once he recovers, she knows his appetite will return, not that she minds. At. All. But she already knows she'll have a great deal of difficulty turning him down. As he's often suggested, he's hard to resist.

Why would she want to?

"I'll be back," she whispers as she kisses his cheek and turns to dart away.

Grabbing her wrist, Castle halts her escape and pulls her back, not so spent that he's oblivious to the world around him. "Forget market and deadlines," he suggests, his head still resting against the sofa, "don't waste our time running all over."

"I'm going down the road, not to Toronto."

He groans unhappily, then before she can remove her hand, he pulls her onto the sofa. Taking her shirt without delay, he drops it to the ground. She simultaneous yelps and giggles when he stretches out and rolls so she's stuck between his body and the back of the sofa.

"Humor me," he demands, his arms so tight around her. "I didn't get to do this last night."

"Do what?" Kate playfully asks, assuming he's making a reference to their prior activities.

But his motivations are quite overtly more affectionate. His touch is all over her, in front, against, around. His forehead meets hers, insistently seeking her focus. As their gazes hone, she almost looks away, the force drawing her in is intoxicating. She can actually see the moment when his pupils dilate further, so wide they almost swallow his brilliant blue irises.

"If I only get to have you for a few days, I want to take advantage of what time we have," he explains as he moves his face away only enough to see her better. "I have an app. Order whatever you want, it comes to the door. Which means you can stay right here."

"Okay," she replies with a subtle shrug. When has her voice ever felt so shaky and uncertain? She suspects an oncoming seduction, not that she isn't excited at that thought. After all, she's waiting for the moment when they're together again, eager to be caressed, filled, to have something pushing against the tight knot that builds when he's around. His thigh is between her legs, but he's not close enough, nowhere near. But even like this, next to him, there is fulfillment to be found.

His one arm, the one beneath her, keeps a tight hold on her, probably to prevent any attempts at escape. But his free hand lifts to her face. His index finger follows an eyebrow, then traces the bridge of her nose, and the rise of her cheekbone. The back of his knuckle drags down her cheek, following the delicate swoop along her chin. His thumb finds the depression below her lower lip, then circles above her mouth to the dip above her upper lip. It feels like he's drawing her, tracing her features without the benefit of paper or pen. His own mouth parts as he touches the plumpness of her lips, noting the line between them.

His eyes move from hers to whatever feature he's studying at the moment. He pauses, a dedicated and deeply enamored look on his face. She chalks it up to those hormones that flood a man's system after orgasm, those damn little chemicals that make them think they're in love for a few minutes after they come. And even while she blames biochemistry for the way that he looks at her, she knows it's not the first time she's seen him look at her this way, and most of those times hadn't been preceded by any sort of sexual interaction.

The thing that startles her most is the fact that she can _feel_ the way she returns the look. She knows she's doing it, powerless to stop. The pull between them has been spiraling, and continues to spiral, out of control. Her fingers begin to touch him in kind, exploring his lips, scratching against the morning stubble that shadows his face. It's not often she sees him so scruffy.

Two days now they've been playing with sexual fire, that's it. And already, she's not sure how she's going to let this go. Is it possible to have enough sex to truly get this attraction 'out of their systems' and move on? How can she forget this moment, or the way he feels against her? How will she face him as he sits in his prominently located chair beside her desk and not flash back to moments like these?

It is dangerous territory she's stomping on. All over this path in her mind, there are warnings, spotlights and sirens, signs in bright yellow decorated with tragic stick-figure renditions of the accidents that may befall those who dare continue. This is a slippery, spine-tingling, toe-curling trail she's on.

She _should_ stop.

She _should_ get up, pack her things, and go home.

But he feels so good, so right, in spite of what logic dictates. It almost seems like this is exactly where she was supposed to end up all along. All the signs, warnings, and sirens in the world feel meaningless.

If Castle's phone were to sound an alarm now, a noise that would give her that loud, real-world wakeup call, she'd silence the damn thing herself without missing a beat, and stay right where she is.

Instead of retreating, she places his palm against her belly, and locks eyes with his while she pinches her lip between her teeth in flirty anticipation. She wants him to see on her face the pleasure she feels simply because he touches her, and she slowly guides his hand into her shorts. They haven't gotten around to removing them yet, but that will probably happen soon.

He follows her guidance eagerly, his other arm still tightly holding her close just in case. They vocalize together as his finger finally moves low enough to find her wetness, his sound a pleased growl at her excitement, hers a moan of eager expectation. And surrender.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N-I'd like to thank my friend Maggie, for being the inspiration for a side character in this chapter. Wherever you are, you are missed.

Again, thanks to all readers out there for playing along—JQK.

* * *

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 7

Castle succeeds in keeping Kate around, and she is not at all unhappy about that. They spend the day together (he still hasn't written a line) and that night he sleeps in her bed next to her.

The next few days go by like a dream. Few relationships in Beckett's life have begun with a honeymoon period such as this. Usually when she begins seeing someone, everything happens in the context of daily life.

Her time in the Hamptons with Castle is so far removed it is almost otherworldly. They seldom venture beyond his property over the next four days. He takes residence in her room (she pushes things in that direction and he doesn't argue), and they spend each night together without having to discuss their plans.

All along they've been shoving the question, _What happens next?_ down the line, a troublesome reality that they both know will enter the picture, but neither wants to face.

The end of her vacation looms over her head now that she has less than one week left of her two week vacation. The bike is scheduled for delivery the next day, and that token of freedom portends the inevitable departure that must follow.

Kate ignores these thoughts during the hours when they're awake together. It is easy to forget the complications of the world when she is with him. Out here, there is no need to fight the distractions he provides. Late at night when the soft snore in his chest rumbles against her back, the questions thunder. The desire to ask him if he wants more from this is permanently perched on the tip of her tongue.

This morning starts as most of their mornings have lately, the pair waking in each other's arms.

Castle is making omelets when the doorbell rings, and he shouts to Kate as she comes down the stairs, "Can you get that?"

Kate tightens his robe around her (she claimed a particularly cozy one for herself a few days ago), and goes to the door. For a moment she pauses before she swings it open, hoping to hell it isn't an ex-wife or (oh god) _Martha_.

_Martha wouldn't ring the doorbell, right?_

A deliveryman stands before her with flowers, and she chuckles, assuming they're from Castle and that he had them sent to her so he could make a romantic gesture without leaving the house. The young man places the enormous bunch in her arms. The bouquet is filled with bright colors from wide open blossoms and verdant greenery. It's probably the largest bouquet she's ever seen.

Then he hands her a large envelope made of heavy card stock, surprisingly weighty for a letter. On the front, in calligraphy, are the words, "Rick & Katie."

In a moment of confusion, Beckett wonders who in the hell 'Rick & Katie' are, and nearly tells the guy he has the wrong address. It takes a second to dawn on her.

Carrying everything to the kitchen, she drops the flowers on the table and holds up the envelope. "Rick and Katie?" he asks. "Sounds like the hottest couple at the high school dance."

"The only person who is allowed to call me 'Katie' is my Dad," she states, emphatically for the record.

"Open it."

She pauses. "You don't think this is some kind of sick joke, do you?"

"What kind of sick joke?"

"I don't know. Someone I've arrested. Someone who wants revenge."

"Might be fun."

"Might be anthrax."

He shrugs off the concern. "I don't think you have a lot of enemies in the Hamptons. Besides, who even knows you're here?"

"Gina?"

"Trust me, she doesn't care enough about anything to plot a sick joke _and_ follow through with it," he lightly replies.

She sighs and carefully peels the envelope. Curiosity winning out, Castle drops his spatula and pilfers the note from inside before she can read it. Within is an invitation to a party. "Oh," Castle explains, "the couple you met at the picnic…the ones we had dinner with? Ciara and Adam?"

"Oh yea. That woman, the one with the Irish accent, and her husband. I like them."

"Little known fact…_not_ really her husband. They are notably _un_married. Been together almost thirty years, since they were in their teens. Have a couple of kids, romance novel levels of devotion. Just never tied the knot officially."

"Okay. So the Irish woman and her _boyfriend_? Why are they sending us flowers?"

"They're having an engagement party today. Guess they finally decided to take the plunge."

"Are you going to go?"

He stares suspiciously. "Am _I_ going to go? The invitation was for both of us."

"They're _your_ friends."

"Ciara really liked you, invited you to dinner this weekend, if I remember correctly. They must have been planning this party already. And you said you'd come if you were still in town."

"Wait a minute…" she grins a bit triumphantly, "weren't you the one who couldn't stand to let me walk down the street? This is a whole party, probably _hours_ spent out of the house. Think we can keep our clothes on that long?"

He flips the invitation over, scouring it for information. Finally satisfied, he hands it to her and says, "This doesn't say anything about clothing being required."

She pokes his chest in retribution before she takes the note.

He leans on the counter near her and says, "Just between the two of us?" He pauses until she nods. "My back is killing me. A few hours wearing clothes and remaining upright may not be a bad thing."

"Aww…did I break you?" she gently plays.

"A little. Just enough," he grins.

"That's okay, I pulled my hip flexor and my shoulder is bunched up," she says as she rubs it.

"Your _shoulder_?"

"Sex with you is a full contact sport," she whispers in praise. She grabs his hips, moving him into place, and turns him to face the counter. Her hands slide up over his lats to encourage him to lean a bit, and she massages the muscles down his back.

"You want to go?" she asks.

"Yea. Come with me." He sighs, she can see the tightness releasing a bit. "Is there anything you aren't good at?" he asks.

"Unfortunately, yes."

* * *

They arrive at the party, dressed for the occasion. Kate borrowed another dress from Jackie 'the fixer,' and Rick still can't seem to stop admiring her. They walk around the home that Ciara and Adam share to the back yard, and find suspiciously white decorations with a sign in glistening silver, "Welcome to our Wedding."

It's a surprise wedding, the kind couples throw when they want to avoid tradition, months of planning, and arguments over where everyone will be seated. Of course if they attempted to avoid planning and great effort, someone failed. The gathering is beautiful, with champagne in glasses (not plastic), decorated torches around the perimeter, lacy white embellishments, and delectable bites of food on tables presented by servers dressed in all black. There is warmth and family found in this celebration, with pictures from the happy couple's lives together, many with their children, on posters around the yard. And the fancy decorations stand proudly next to balloons, streamers, and hand drawn decorations made by kids.

Suddenly this little outing feels a little more serious, and the pair find themselves on a date at a wedding. Rick pulls Kate aside before they go too far into the yard, and he says, "Is this okay?"

"We're already here."

"Yea but..."

"If you want to leave, that's fine."

He replies, "If you're okay with it, so am I."

"Katie!" Ciara enthusiastically croons, greeting Beckett with a half hug and a polite kiss on the cheek. She's wearing a beautiful white dress. It's elegant, but surprisingly simple, especially given the location. "I'm so glad you came." She talks to Beckett like they're old friends, then turns to Rick. After kissing him on the cheek, she whispers, "Managed to keep her around I see."

"Looks like," he whispers back. "So what's going on? I thought you were staunchly anti-wedded bliss."

"It's a formality," she explains, waving it off. "Why make everyone sit around some stodgy old wedding for a couple who've already shared a lifetime. You know Adam though, such a romantic, no matter how he tries to hide it. The JP wasn't enough for him. So we compromised. We'll exchange a vow or two and have a party."

"That's my kind of wedding."

"Look, in just a second we'll get the formal bits out of the way. Then we'll have some fun." She leans toward Castle and adds quietly, "I'll find you afterwards and help you figure out how to reel this one in," like Kate isn't privy to the entire conversation.

Kate and Rick both fluster slightly, but Ciara insists one more time, "Third wife's the charm, Rick!" giggling as she hurries off.

"Comments like that aren't helpful," he shouts after her. "About that…" he whispers to Kate, "I don't think she gets this. What this is."

"How can we expect her to know when we don't even know," Kate teases, but there's a hefty truth behind her joke.

Music from the front of the yard near the seating area captures everyone's attention, and the crowd takes their seats. Concentric rows surround the laced trellis where the marrying couple steps into place.

* * *

Rick has become somewhat accustomed to taking off her clothes, kissing her, touching her, but as he reaches out to take her hand, he feels notably nervous. But she grasps his extended fingers (without so much as a muttered comment beneath her breath or an eye roll). Her fingers weave between his, and she gives him that smile, the one that could convince him of absolutely anything. She leads to a seat, and he follows.

Rick is tempted to sneak a picture of her like this, hard-as-nails Beckett, indulging in silly romantic gestures at wedding of all places. Also, she looks so stunning he doesn't want to forget.

Once they're seated, she still keeps his hand for a few moments. The breeze prevents the day from feeling oppressive, but the heat between their hands makes them sweat. He lets go first, putting his arm around her, resting it on the back of her chair.

The ceremony is brief, a quick exchange of promises between two people who have already been practicing devoted behavior for decades. Ciara's insistence that this ceremony is being done for Adam's benefit is called into question as her voice trembles while she recites her vows.

No one throws a bouquet (Beckett has caught one before anyway). There is no official presentation of the couple or any of those typical rituals, but there is genuine celebration, a raucous party the moment the ceremony is through. This family knows how to share a good time.

As Rick sees the couple's children (and even a few grandchildren) he ponders the fact that by waiting to officially marry, there are those present who wouldn't have even existed when the couple first could have made things legal. All of these people on this well-branched family tree are not only celebrating, but they're part of the couple's story.

He's a romantic, very much so, appreciating the beauty of a relationship that has probably weathered some serious storms over the years, and they've managed to not only stay afloat, but are still moving forward.

Adam and Ciara are, simply put, still very much in love, even after a lifetime, after fights and struggles, disagreements over money or in-laws. They've probably had late nights with crying infants, fights with rebelling teenagers, and even withstood the metamorphosis parents must endure when their children have grown. They've likely survived threats from outside the marriage (both are, and always have been, very attractive people), so Rick's certain their devotion has nothing to do with lack of opportunity outside of their relationship.

He wants that. All of it.

Castle considers the dessert table before him while Kate goes to grab drinks. It seems like he's giving the whole thing very careful thought as there are four cupcake options, but really he's busy thinking about what he's going to do when her bike arrives the next day. He still hasn't asked her to stay with him until the very last minute before she needs to return to work, although that's what he wants.

His thoughts are forced to leave both Beckett and dessert when someone takes his arm and sighs. "She's just lovely, Rick."

"Who?" he instinctively asks.

"You know well who," Ciara answers as she nods toward the area set as a dance floor.

Rick looks in the suggested direction, and sees Beckett there, somehow caught up in a tiny swarm of kids, all loudly giggling and wildly twirling. Kate can handle a shootout, barely breaking a sweat, but these kids make her look overcome. She looks thoroughly uncomfortable, hands folded nervously in front of her, as she's in the middle of this adorable chaos.

It doesn't take long for the kids to find a new distraction, running off the floor to play at some other game.

Kate appears relieved until a toddler, two at the most, fists the skirt of her dress and tugs. She looks down, and the boy reaches his little hands up toward her, wanting to be lifted. She surveys the area, probably looking for a parent or someone else to direct the child to. He is not dissuaded, continuing to demand that she pick him up.

Finally she stoops down and balances on her haunches, whispering something to the child. He reaches for her still, very insistently, and wraps his arms around her neck. She stands carefully, and Castle sees the way the boy wins her over so effortlessly. The child is on her hip, and whatever he says makes Kate smile. Her hand, so uncertainly, finds its way to the child's back, and she has no choice but to return the hug, softly patting him. The child rests his head on Kate's shoulder, likely tired from trying to keep up with the activities of the older children he'd been tailing. Almost immediately, he begins to fall asleep.

"Your ovaries exploding, dear boy?" Ciara teases.

"What?" Rick chuckles awkwardly as he realizes he's been staring. He wishes his response had sounded more confident.

"Oh, come on. You've been a wonderful mother all on your own. This time you'd have help. I can picture you with a few more. Imagine what gorgeous little babies the two of you would make!" Ciara all too loudly announces.

"Shh," he harshly counters, hoping Beckett doesn't hear any such suggestion. "Definitely not helpful."

"Why not? I've seen you together. I saw you at that fundraiser, looking awfully cozy if I must spell it out, but in a week's time things have definitely…intensified," Ciara's eyes flash wickedly.

Normally he loves conversations with this woman (when they're talking about other people) but right now he just wants to make sure she doesn't say anything Beckett can overhear (or worse, say something to her directly).

"I think you're reading _way_ too much into this," he deflects as calmly as he can.

"You've got it bad for her. I can tell. And she for you, in case you're wondering."

"You think?" he asks curiously, then waves his hand to disregard her suggestion. "It's not like that."

"Ah," she nods her disbelief. "Of course not. Silly me. What is it then?"

"It's…it's…casual."

"Oh yea. Obviously. 'Casual' like a Brioni suit," Ciara snarks back.

He smoothly replies, "I'm happy for you and Adam. I've always admired your relationship. But you've found something pretty rare. I've tried marriage, twice as you made a point of reminding her earlier, and—"

"Psssh. You never looked at anyone how you look at her. Not even your wives."

"The situation is complicated."

"They all are."

"And we're operating under the 'if it's not broken don't fix it' principle."

"You're a lousy liar," the bride says sweetly. "If it's not operating at full potential, it _is _broken, right? If your car will only go at a sputter, you take it to the mechanic."

"Yea, well, my _car_ doesn't sputter," he counters a bit defensively, making the woman reply with a knowing wink.

They watch as Adam approaches Kate, and says something that makes her laugh. She points to the boy in her embrace, then her hand gestures in question as she tries to decide what to do. The boy is now sleeping on her shoulder in spite of the music, conversation, and laughter all around. The groom takes her to the child's parents. The father takes his son, and the boy wakes enough to wave as he's carried away.

The part that stays with Castle is the way she gives the toddler a sweet little goodbye wave in return.

Adam holds out a hand to offer to dance, and Kate accepts. Adam is a fabulous dancer, and Kate seems momentarily surprised when he manages to spin her right into his arms.

"He couldn't even pull off a simple box step without trouncing on my toes when I met him. Look at the dirty old bastard now," Ciara teases, "pawing up your girl hours after we share vows. I knew it was all downhill after the I-do's."

While Castle watches, wishing he'd kept tally of Beckett's smiles these last few days, he says to Ciara, "I really am happy for both of you."

"Thank you, love. And I…am happy for _you_."

As if on cue (like maybe she knows way too much about all of these thoughts in his head…a truly terrifying thought), Kate seeks Castle as she dances, her eyes finding his with spirited warmth over Adam's shoulder.

Ciara notices (even people drilling into ancient ice in Antarctica at that very moment probably felt the heat) and she nods, "Oh, you're right. That woman's obviously not at all interested in the likes of you," with such sarcasm he would normally be proud. "The sex must be phenomenal," she notes at a whisper, never one to be shy…or appropriate.

"I'm offended," he feigns, but turns, brow lifted high, nods, and mouths the word, 'extraordinary' as his friend smiles approvingly.

Kate is asked a question, something that takes her by surprise, and she doesn't answer until she spins around so her back is to Castle. He's not that good at reading lips, but he'd at least like the chance to try, even if it means wildly misinterpreting her.

Ciara is called over by her grown children as they prepare to take a picture. Before leaving to return to her celebration, she slaps Castle's cheek, a maternal tap, but hard enough to provoke color. It isn't even the first time she's done this to him (or to others).

_What is it about her charisma that allows her to smack people around without ever having charges filed? Maybe she's friends with a local political official?_

"Listen here," Ciara orders. "Don't fuck this up, u'kay? And don't let her fuck it up either. You're a smart boy. Figure it out. You'll regret it if you don't."

Then she kisses his slapped-pink face and hurries off.

* * *

Adam, too, is needed, called upon for the same picture. He dances Kate over towards Castle and says, "Care to cut in?"

Castle immediately steps up and takes her in his arms as Adam leaves to join his new wife.

"I think your friends are trying to play matchmaker," Kate says, gazing at Castle before her focus finds the top of his shoulder. "Adam was talking you up. And Ciara?"

"Maybe she was hitting on me, ever stop to think that?"

Kate pauses, displaying her disbelief. Then she comments as if her inner monologue takes over, "They are so in love."

He adds, "They're not very good at it. Matchmaking, I mean."

"No?" she asks, wincing slightly. Even if she and Castle are unofficial, it's not like they lack chemistry.

"We were already kind of matched before they came along, don't you think? Seems unfair to claim a match that's already been made."

The evening is growing late. The day was a wonderful one, _another_ wonderful one. This is becoming a habit. It would be easy to let this last day before her bike is delivered go down in recorded history as romantic and lovely. Perhaps a fitting end to this fling.

But it isn't a fling, not to her. She's known that for a few days. And so much is unanswered. For some reason, she can't let the question rest this time, can't allow the see-what-happens attitude to drive their actions when they part. The words have been trying to emerge for days, and finally do so. "What are we doing here?" she asks without a flinch, still holding him, eyes honed on his.

"Dancing at a pop-up surprise wedding," he flippantly answers.

"I'm…I'm being serious. What are we doing, you and me?"

"What do _you_ think we're doing?"

"Is this a normal summer affair for you, Castle? Do we just…end this in a day or two and go back to normal?"

"Adam get in your head?"

"Are you going to answer _every_ question I ask with another question?"

"Would you like me to?" he asks again, teasing, but she doesn't laugh, not even a chuckle. She wants to scream. Maybe he doesn't understand how hard the original question was to ask.

"I get it. I understand," she replies, accepting his jovial responses as indications this is anything but serious. They'd made no promises for the future. Changing the subject, she adds, "I've never been to a surprise wedding before. Do you think—"

"I think," he interrupts loudly, "I wouldn't use the word 'normal.' Or 'affair.' I'm talking about you and me…not the wedding."

She's relieved, on one hand, that he cared enough to give her an answer, but something continues to gnaw at her brain.

"It's so weird, Castle," she ponders aloud. Her words sound more charged with annoyance than she wants. "You are full throttle, all-in, with _everything_. You never hold back…not a comment, you never hide a weird theory. You buy the best toys, the tastiest meals. You don't seem to hold back with women. Never miss out on a chance to do something ridiculous."

"Why is that weird? I've been that way since before you met me."

"That's exactly my point. The weird thing is you _aren't_ acting that way. Not lately. Not with me," she argues, although they're surrounded by people, so the argument is at whisper level. "I've controlled the pace of all of this. You're cautious. You're careful with what you say, how we interact. I can feel your hesitation…It feels like you're holding back, like you're just along for the ride."

"But, oh what a ride," he deflects.

"I know I'm a difficult person," she contends. "I know I'm walled up, and careful, and distant. I have a lot of trouble letting people in. These are all things you know, you've known for a long time. Maybe you've decided it's not worth the effort, that this has been fun, but you have plenty of other options out there that don't come with my host of complications. I'm a lot of work. Or maybe you're…holding back because of me…because I make you feel like you have to."

"Sex with you is definitely worth any extra effort you may require. Believe me," he brags, falling into a safe default for his own protection.

But it hits her, almost knocking her back. Her expression goes blank. She talks about the music and the antics of someone who's had a bit too much to drink nearby. The hurt is emanating off her, radiating like the wavy curls of heat that rise from the blacktop on a ninety degree day. She wants to hide it so desperately, but doubts she can no matter how hard she tries. As Ciara walks by, Kate hands Castle off to her, whispering that she has to find the restroom. He clearly knows better.

* * *

Kate hurries into the powder room just inside the door, trying like hell not to look like she's running away, but damn does she feel like running away. She knows her bike will be there tomorrow and even if she stays a day or two after that, well, this brief foray into another world will be over. It feels unfair, terribly, to have experienced something only to watch it slip away.

A nagging voice, coming from the part of her that tries so hard to protect her from getting hurt in the first place, says, _This is why you never should have stayed, never should have let him in. _And still parts of her she's only just begun to free again remind her that at least she tried, she lived, she enjoyed it while it lasted.

For all of his flirtation, comments and teasing, _she_ is the only one in love. Even if she's only confessing it to herself, the admission hurts. What a sad end to a wonderful stay.

Taking a last look in the mirror to be certain she doesn't appear too devastated, she exits the powder room to go back outside and find him. She isn't going to run, she's going to try to enjoy what she can of these last few hours. As she nears the door, she hears the words, "I am holding back."

Turning toward a darkened butler's pantry, she thinks she sees Castle sitting on the counter, staring down at his knees. It looks like his outline, although it's too dark to make out his features. His voice is the only certain identifier. She walks slowly over to the doorway near him and crosses her arms before she leans against the first row of cabinets just inside. The decision to go to him is a hard one, the kind of decision that reminds her of moths and flames, but she is compelled to hear him.

"But you are, too. It isn't like you're openly discussing your feelings or putting it all out there," he accuses, the words quiet but tinged with irritation.

"You're right I haven't. But that's what I tried to do. And you made a joke out of it."

She waits for him to speak, and will continue to wait for as long as it takes.

He sounds angrier than she's used to hearing. "I don't want to mess it up. And, no, I may not care about the precinct or police rules all that much, but I don't want you to shut down and push me away for months on end. _Again_."

"Again?" she softly questions.

"I fucked up, and I owned that," he confesses, glancing at her. "I apologized for breaking your trust when it came to your mother's case, and I stand by that apology. It was the wrong thing to do. But you dropped me like what we had meant _nothing_, like I meant _nothing_, like our days working together were _meaningless_. Normally I do live my life pretty all-in, but that summer, without you? All I wanted was to be with you again, working beside you. I would have done almost anything just to see you again. And you wouldn't even let me explain. So when I got back, when you finally let me back in your life, I was more careful. And I regret coming up here with Gina, I really do, especially if you… …if it bothered you."

He clenches his fist, looking like he's gathering strength. "But I thought we were getting closer this last year. And then Demming comes along and I'm on the sidelines again. So I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for any and every time I've done that. But it hasn't exactly been easy for me either, being the world's most replaceable sidekick."

"You are not my sidekick, and you're definitely _not_ replaceable," she sternly counters.

"Sure as hell feels like I am. And you didn't even replace me with someone interesting. What the hell did you even see in that guy?"

Beckett feels the tension, that constant, gnawing pull, the one she fights with whenever Castle is involved: to be open or hide. "He was safe," she confesses.

"Safe?" Castle drops from his seated position to stand before her, still a few feet away. "You are the most phenomenal, intelligent, beautiful, fascinating, _infuriating_ human I've ever known. Why in the hell would you settle for 'safe'?"

"What do you want from me, Castle? What do you want me to say?"

"The truth. You and I…we've had staring contests that were probably hotter than your best night with Demming. Whether you admit that or not, I know it's true. And you do, too. So I want you to explain why you'd trade intensity and tension and passion…for safety. More like boredom."

"I was trying to keep myself grounded." He starts to groan at her answer, and she wonders if she's going to lose him. So she admits, "And then not long before you left, I realized I didn't want safe. I wanted 'intensity and tension and passion.' And I ended it with him because I wanted you."

She herself gasps slightly at her own confession. Admitting it aloud is shocking, and at the same time, saying it feels like letting go of a tremendous burden. She looks at him, and he appears even more stunned than her, her eyes adjusting enough to make out his expression. He's still, frozen as he waits, face pleading with her to continue.

"I ended it with him. I had it all planned. I was going to come here with you. And when I arrived at your place, I was going to go on the nickel tour I knew you'd give…and at some point, whenever it felt right…I was going to kiss you…I was going to go for it, lay it all out there. Because I knew it bothered you when I started dating him, and I knew I had feelings for you that were getting hard to deny. And I was going to tell you, I _was_ telling you, when I realized you gave up on me. Or maybe you weren't ever that interested in the first place. Suddenly there's Gina."

"I didn't know."

"So yea. I chose safe. For a _minute_. And then I realized my mistake. What about you? You've actually mentioned before that your whole relationship with Gina was sexless the first time around. So why? Why go back to something without 'intensity and tension and passion'?"

"Because…" Castle shakes his head as he tries to work through it all. "I guess…she was familiar, there at the right time, while I was watching you with Demming…"

"I'm sorry," she says, coming a bit closer but not touching him. "I'm _really_ sorry, Castle. I was afraid."

"And now? You're _not_ afraid?"

"Of course I am," she wryly chuckles. "But I _hate_ caving to fear." She takes a deep breath, like a miniature meditation, and says, "The thing is, I'm here now, but I can still tell you're playing it safe with me. It… … it feels like..." she struggles epically, not just to be honest, but to find the words that will convey her meaning. Her voice isn't loud, but she's never heard herself sound so sure. "It's like I'm only getting half of you."

"I don't want to screw up here."

Beckett swallows, her vision adjusted well enough to see his eyes completely. It's amazing how informative his expressions can be. And that, deep down, they're both so afraid of screwing this up that they're going to ruin it if they don't make things right.

"I've learned something, Castle. It's not just work that is better with you in it…it's my life overall. You, you aren't safe. That makes me very nervous, and at the same time, it's part of what makes you so damn attractive to me, too," she smiles as the confession falls. "I decided I didn't want safe. I decided I wanted you, the full, un-watered-down version. I want that man, the one who isn't safe, the one who doesn't hold back."

His eyes lift slowly to hers, but he waits.

She takes a leap. A huge, terrifying vault off the top of an emotional skyscraper, and just hopes he'll be ready to pull the ripcord for her. "The man I'm falling for…"

He swallows, still silent.

"So," she says, a quiver in her voice, "that's what I want. What about you?"

The silence, the horrible, long, agonizing silence, gives her so much time to run a hundred awful scenarios through her head.

"What do I want?" he finally asks after a few beats.

"Yes."

"What do I _really_ want?" he continues, still only answering with questions.

"Yea."

She knows there is a storm of thoughts in his head, but he seems so serene as he moves directly in front of her. "I want…" he closes the gap between them, backing her roughly against the floor-to-ceiling pantry door, enough to make the cabinet shake against the wall. "I _want_ to do this without worrying that you might push me away or forget about me for something safe." He practically hisses that last word, like it's distasteful.

He takes her wrists in his hands, raising them above her head and pinning them against the door behind her. "I want to be with you the way I want to, without holding back. I hate holding back."

"I want that, too," she whispers, leaning forward, lips delicately parted, to kiss him.

He pulls away, his lips just out of her reach. "And I don't want to go back to how things were."

"I don't either," she says, shaking her head.

"What I want…" he begins, then the sentence falls into the abyss.

His will strikes her like a fury, like lightning that comes from a storm she didn't see on the horizon. His knee wedges between her thighs as he lifts her hands up higher over her head, their bodies pressed together tightly as he holds her in place unrelentingly. She cries out, damn right she does, at the power of this kiss.

She has enjoyed (in truth the word is 'loved' rather than 'enjoyed') kissing him, fucking him, sleeping beneath the weight of his arm as each exhalation tickles the hairs at the back of her neck. She's appreciated the meals, the outings, laughed at the jokes, been lost in this world that seemed so foreign to reality. Kate is certain she's used her lifetime allotment of smiles and flirty stares in just this last week. It has been, in many ways, unforgettable.

It is hard to say what is so different now, to put it together in a neat summary of words. The inability to perfectly define it doesn't make it any less true. It _is_ different. These lips have met now enough times that they've lost count. These bodies, now clothed, have been even closer than this with somewhat alarming frequency. But here, now, it is not as it was before. This kiss reaches her heart, her very center, heavy and seething, scalding and electrical.

This…is how Castle feels when he's all-in.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N—Okay, so one last little bit o' lovin' before reality returns for these two. Those trying to read during work (or if you don't like smutty bits) be warned. :)**

**I suspect that the weekend is probably the worst time to post since everyone is busy, but here we go anyway. Thanks, all, for sticking with the story. -JQK**

* * *

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 8

Beckett and Castle dance at the wedding for another hour or so after they manage to pull themselves apart, both seemingly content simply to be together. They both have answers. This isn't a fling. It is something real, something that will continue back in New York, in their lives beyond the summer. There are so many questions yet to be asked (much less answered), but for now they know enough. They know it's worth figuring out.

Fears had ponged around in Rick's head since their relationship first became intimate (until tonight). He'd imagined returning home and going back to "work" and the way things were. He pictured having to stand idly by while Beckett grabbed her jacket and headed out after a long day as he sat and wondered what she was doing, and if anyone else was involved.

Now that he knows she won't forget this when she leaves, his heart can breathe a sigh of relief.

They walk back from the wedding along the beach, their path lit only from nearby lights as the hazy, humid sky filters out most illumination. After a long period of silence, Castle says in near singsong, "I think you li-ike me."

"What are you, ten?" she counters, smirking.

As they step from the beach and through the gate by his pool, he hums it again.

"Maybe I do. Deal with it," she plays at fighting.

It feels unbelievably good to hear her say it, admit it right there, this time without dragging it out into the open.

"Good," he replies, yanking her forward into a tight embrace. He kisses down her neck and her eyes go closed as he says, "Because I like you, too. A lot."

"Mmm," she hums, the delicate skin of her inner wrists sliding up his arms and draping softly over his shoulders.

He takes a few steps back, trying to hide his plan. As he reaches the pool, he feels for the edge with his shoe, still keeping her in his arms. There is such a thrill as he realizes she's so distracted by him that she isn't even paying attention to the world around her.

Without warning, he crashes into the deep water at the far end of the pool, Kate still in his embrace. As they splash beneath the surface, he feels her struggle to free her arms, and then she drags him to the edge and makes sure his head is above water, like he's being rescued.

Keeping him braced against the wall of the pool, she holds his face to see if he's okay. "Are you alright?" she frantically asks. When she sees he's laughing, she smacks him with a knuckle to the chest. "What the hell, Castle? You did that on purpose?"

He grins. "You said you wanted the full throttle, un-watered-down version of me. Which is both funny and ironic. Funny because you're getting all-out-me, which is exactly what you asked for, and ironic because you wanted 'un-watered-down' when we are both very clearly 'watered down' right now."

"Hilarious," she monotones.

His whole plan since she appeared on his doorstep had been to show Beckett a good time, to let her have fun and enjoy life. But there with her in the pool, both drenched, he feels like he's the main beneficiary of this whole scheme. It's not that life hasn't brought him a lot of happiness (it really has), but this kind of happiness just feels like…a little something extra.

"You're so immature sometimes," she says, sounding alarmingly gentle.

"Extremely."

She allows his hands on her waist as she says, "Well, you were right about one thing…when it comes to crazy people, the sex is amazing."

His eyes flash as he nods, "Right!"

* * *

The bike arrives the next day, fully functional, with fresh new paint, parts, and tires. She wonders if more of it is new than original anymore, but it is, indeed, a beautiful restoration. Castle quietly takes care of the bill while she looks over her motorcycle, remembering how vacation had begun, and the way she'd assumed all of her time would be spent alone with her bike.

As the van that delivered the bike leaves, Castle approaches, "Look okay?"

"It's gorgeous. They did an amazing job."

"Good," he says, and then speaking so immediately that he almost talks over his own words, he says, "Don't go. Stay. Stay until 5AM the morning that you have to go back. You can ride back to the city, and go straight to work…"

She giggles, the sound so soft and feminine she thinks it barely sounds like her. "I can't stay _that_ long. I have to get back a little before, take care of things at my apartment, do laundry…attempt to re-acclimate to society. And I overheard that call you were on this morning—"

"I know," he closes his eyes. "I'll work on that chapter today. Promise."

"When do Martha and Alexis come up?" Kate somewhat nervously asks. (They'd agreed to keep the relationship between the two of them, at first, while figuring things out.)

"Thursday afternoon, but—"

"How about I leave Thursday morning? That way you don't have to explain why I'm here, and I have time to go home and try to remember how to be a functioning adult."

"Sure. Okay," he replies, sounding a little disappointed, although he's trying to hide it.

"You have to get some work done. You don't want to break your contract…then we wouldn't be able to stay in your fancy house in the Hamptons, and go to parties with your rich friends…you'd be forced to sell it all...crash with me until you find a place you can afford…probably in Jersey," she teases.

"You offering me a key?"

"Oh sure," she nods, the sarcasm already evident, "three keys, actually…one for you, one each for Martha and Alexis. It'll put a hell of a damper on our sex life, since we'll have to get bunk beds for all of us to fit in my apartment, and—"

"Point taken," he stops her.

"Go write," she demands, "I'll be here later."

* * *

Castle seems worried that it will take him forever to get going with his writing, but as soon as he sits down with his laptop, keys start tapping and don't seem to stop. By late afternoon he not only finishes the chapter that's overdue, but half of the next as well. When Kate stops by his office to bring him a drink, he shows her the evidence of his success (without letting her eyes linger on the page long enough to read much).

"I think I've earned a little break. You bored out of your skull?" he questions.

"Not really," Kate replies. She hands him a cocktail, "Try this."

"Research for an upcoming sting where you pose undercover as a bartender?"

She nods at the drink, and he sips it.

"Not bad!" he compliments. Pointing to the glass with artificial accusation in his eyes, he questions, "You're just trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me."

"Obviously. That's the _only_ move I've mastered," she jokes. Then she takes his hand, giving him the smile that seems to always make him shudder just a little bit. She wonders how much longer that will last before he gets used to her and no longer reacts with such excitement. For now, she's going appreciate the way that feels.

She takes his free hand, dragging him up out of his chair, and leads him to the game room. "Care to play?"

"Sounds good to me. Strip poker?" he says, his gaze is brimming with suggestion.

"Not exactly." Kate retrieves the billiard balls from beneath the pool table and begins to rack them. "I was thinking…strip pool."

"New one. But okay. Might take me a while to figure out the rules," he teases.

"Normal rules apply. For every shot you call and make, you can claim an article of your competitor's clothing. And…"

"Why am I so intrigued by the 'and' in that statement?"

"Winner calls the shots for the rest of the day."

"You have my attention. Rules are pretty straightforward. And clearly you're not making it all up as you go..."

Her eyes mock-scowl as she continues about her business. She grabs a pool cue, holding it loosely as she casually (and seductively) walks to the other side of the table. After chalking and placing the cue ball on the table precisely where she wants it, she leans down to eyeball the shot, giving him a view she's already pretty certain he'll enjoy.

Glancing over at him, finding him numbly lost in his ogling, she asks, "You in or what?"

His eyes follow up her body to her face, lingering until the question hits him. He shakes his head to clear the disorientation and says, "Yup. I'm in. You break."

She wore this on purpose, a silky bra with parts peeking out along the edges of her tank top. She still remembers how he looked at her when she first arrived wearing a top like this. She traded in her riding jeans for shorts, the little ones she wore out on the boat, and recalls the events of that day, too. His eyes feel warm on her like the sun on the beach, glowing from the source above and reflecting off of white sand below. It's a warming that comes from both heat and light.

Yes, she's pretty good at pool (if she says so herself), but she's also a woman who knows how to carry herself, and has probably tipped the odds in her favor more than once in her life with a few distraction techniques. She guesses Castle expects that, though, so she chooses to employ some subtlety.

This game could be over all too easily, with one sentence or even a gesture, that would transform this match into the kind of hot, heavy, spontaneous, absolutely-fucking-fantastic sex she's quickly become accustomed to.

That isn't the point, though. Of course they're heading there. He knows it. She knows it. But she enjoys playing with him, and knows once she's home, days with time to spare will be few and far between. For a moment, it almost makes her tear up, but she figuratively slaps the thoughts away. She's not one to react emotionally to things like this, and that near reaction bugs her a little. Lately, when Castle is involved, emotions seem to come a bit too easily.

As she manages to sink one billiard on the break, she announces, "Looks like I have stripes, you're solids."

Without hesitation, she marches over to him, hands him her stick and says, "Hold this."

He takes it, one cue in each hand like he's skiing indoors. As she lifts the hanging part of his shirt in the front, he blurts, "Woah. Wow. Straight to the point."

"You wish," Kate teases. She smirks at him, but only unlatches his belt and slides it through the loops before she folds it over in half. Tapping his hip with the belt before she sets it on a stool nearby, she replies, "Planning ahead. It'll just get in the way later."

Then she takes her cue from his hand while he stands still, and she returns to the table. "Ten ball, far left corner," she calls, making the shot.

It's pretty clear she could run the table, although she doesn't. It's more fun if they both have turns.

* * *

An hour later, Beckett is winning, clearly, and has been the entire time. Rick suspects at least half of the times she's missed were intentional. He's had the chance to remove enough of her clothing (down to her skivvies), and he's been in his boxers for a bit now.

She talks to him, although he's far too busy watching her and already considering his plans for the next day. He's going to lose this game of pool (not that it feels like "losing" by any stretch of the imagination), and he's accepted that. He doesn't mind at all the prospect of her acting out whatever 'evil' plan she has in store for him. He can't wait.

He's distracted...by her, by this game, by thoughts of what else to do with her while she's still on vacation. The urge to impress her remains, to create fond memories for and with her to hang onto once things are normal again. If he even knows what 'normal' is anymore.

And then he hears her say, "…I'm just not really sated, and you'd think after all this—"

"Wait," he interrupts, dragged back to the conversation. "What you mean by 'not sated'?"

"You haven't been listening to a thing I've been saying, have you?"

"Not my fault. If you want me to pay attention to _words_, don't try to have conversations walking around like…" he gestures at her body in its current state of undress, "…that."

"Forget it," she says as she approaches him.

Her palms smooth over his ass, still boxer covered, and pulls him against her. He removes her hands, takes her by the elbows and holds her in front of him, giving him a little space.

"Have you been faking?" he asks, clearly feeling his confidence shaken.

"Orgasms?" she blurts.

"Yea. Because if—"

"Why would I do that?"

"So you haven't faked?"

"In my lifetime, of course. With you…not _too_ much."

"When?"

She giggles, ending the terror he seems to feel. "Relax. I haven't had to."

"Okay," he still seems suspicious.

"Why would you ask that?"

"You just said you're not sated, and—"

"I should let you wonder since you weren't listening."

"Again…playing sexy pool, barely dressed. If you want to have meaningful conversation this is not the venue."

"I said," she finally answers, hands returning to his body, fingernails provoking all sorts of devilish sensations, "that we've had amazing sex…history book worthy."

"Agreed so far," he smirks softly but waits for the exception that might come.

"But afterwards, I feel like…I still want more. It's intense. And I don't know how I'm going to stay focused at work when every time I see you all I can think is…" she looks him over, approvingly and studiously, and all she can add is, "mmm."

"Best problem ever."

"Yea. Maybe if we could try to make things slightly less great in the next few days, it would help. Like being weaned off a drug."

"I'll get right on that," he answers, although he shakes his head 'no.'

She snickers for a moment before returning to the table and their game. She looks at her options (he still has 4 billiards on the table, she only has the eight ball left). She calls the shot, it's easy enough to make as he's seen her make much harder shots. It looks like she cues a bit too high and straight on through, a mistake he doubts she'd make in such a straightforward case. Immediately and with enough force to rattle the eight ball in the pocket for several seconds before it settles, the cue ball follows in. "Scratched on the eight," she says, like she's suddenly forgotten she's incredibly competitive. "Looks like you win."

She leans back against the table, hands on the rail next to her, and waits for him.

* * *

"You threw the game," he proudly accuses as he puts the cue sticks in their places on the rack and walks patiently over to her.

"Even the best players make a bad shot once in a while," she flirts, trying to hide the sort of gleeful look she feels she's giving.

"One request," she adds as he places his hands on the rail on either side of her, between her body and her fingers.

"As the undisputed _winner, _I'll consider it."

"Tell me what you want. Not in spruced up, edited writer's words. Just…how the thoughts are in your head. Not what you think I want to hear, but what you're actually thinking."

"Whatever's in my head? Unfiltered. You sure about that?"

"Why? Are you going to toss us in the deep end again?"

"Not right now."

She ponders a confession before she makes it, "The sound of your voice, especially when you're turned on…it _really _works for me."

"After all the times you've tried to silence me?" he impishly presses.

"That's work. And it's one thing when you're rambling about insane alien mob theories—"

"—there's an _alien_ _mob_?—"

"—and it's another when you're talking about how much you want to fuck me."

"I really do enjoy talking about that."

"Good. So tell me what you're thinking. What you want…what you like…whatever is in your head." Pausing when a thought strikes her, she says, "I mean, I don't like being demeaned or degraded…or anything like that."

"Sure," he replies vacantly, like he's already busily considering what he heard.

Her words are processed in his brain on a slight delay, and then he asks, "Why would you think I'd say anything like that? Degrading you…is that what you think I'm thinking about?"

"Just letting you know, being honest about what my boundaries are. We're going to be together, so we should be able to talk about the things we like and don't like, right?"

He nods with a crooked smile, like he's drunk on the idea of them. The case seemingly closed, he kisses her, his touch growing bolder, but her previous words have created questions he can't put aside for later. He pauses as the question demands to be asked. "Did someone say stuff like that to you?"

"I wouldn't say it happens often, but it's happened," she answers, working her body against his, typically a very effective measure, he still seems distracted. "What?" she asks him.

"You deserve better."

She inhales sharply, "I agree." Then she finds his eyes and speaks directly through him, "Kinda feels like I've found better."

He nods, that affirming look on his face, the one filled with adoration. "If I'm going to talk about you, about this, about us, you want to know what I'd say?"

"I do."

He slips his hand into her panties, and his finger moves between her folds, only softly tapping at her sex. "I'd tell you how insanely hard it makes me when you're wet like this, for me, when I've only just gotten started with you. I love the way you respond to me."

His touch slides along her crevice, and her hands latch on the edge of the table.

"I love that I get to touch you like this. That I get to know this side of you."

He turns her around, her feet planted firmly on the floor, and wraps her in his embrace. Her back is to him, and he places one hand at the center of her ribs between her breasts, bringing her to a fully upright stance so she's flush against him, their upper bodies lined. Covering her hand with his, he brings it to her core. Her middle finger beneath his, he pushes it against her sex, letting her first feel the pool that gathers at her entrance, and then slipping along the parting of her flesh to her clit.

"See how good you feel…this is how it feels when I touch you," he rasps as he guides her finger into her body. "Tight. Hot. _Slick…soaked_."

Kate leans her head back against his shoulder as she feels their hands exploring her body together, his leading hers. His body is firm behind her, the rising of his ribs, gruffness of his breath, and insistent pressure from his cock explaining all too well that he is as swept up in this.

She notices that first harsh twinge at her core, the one that tells her an orgasm is already threatening. It's ridiculous, how effortlessly he seems to bring her back to this point time and again.

"I don't want to stop. Ever," he swears, and as hyperbolic as it is, it feels almost true.

Her moan is heavy, and betrays the extremity of her arousal. That makes him pause and ease up, turning her in his arms so she's facing him. She leans against the table as he finds his place between her legs.

"As much as I love touching you, it doesn't even compare with the way you taste, the way your pussy feels on my mouth. The way your knees buckle when I wrap my lips around your clit and suck just hard enough. The way you gush when I stick my tongue in you."

She wants to shove him lower, push his head against her exactly where she wants him, but he's busy watching her reaction, feeling her swelling arousal, and he's not going to let her dictate his progress.

"You want me to go down on you, Beckett?" he asks.

His words are overtly assured, so confident it should be infuriating, but it just makes her hotter. Because she _does. _She nods, the words emerging needfully, "God, yes. I really do."

"It's too bad you let me win that game, or _you_ could tell _me_ what to do," he says, watching the way her expression is partially stunned until he smiles.

Castle braces his hands on the edge of the pool table and drops to a knee, forging a trail with his tongue down her body. She lifts herself so she's sitting on the table, but he directs her feet back to the floor. She knows it's because he loves the way it feels when the pleasure mounts so fully her legs grow weak. He's confessed that to her before.

He kisses the dip inside each hip before he lowers her panties, removing them with decisiveness that feels too close to patience. She wants him to rip them off, to become frenzied, quit messing around.

But he is frenzied, in a way. There's a fever in his eyes she sees that is somehow not entirely reflected in his actions, like he's managed to contain the buzz within and stop it from controlling his body. She currently lacks such moderation.

With one hand behind her knee, he lifts her leg and hooks it over his shoulder, stopping to assess some of the marks he's left on her inner thigh previously. He gives her only closed mouthed little kisses, delicate presses of lips to skin, moving only an inch or so at a time, and she whines his name impatiently, "Caaah-suhhll," like she didn't already come for him earlier that morning.

As he tastes the crease at the top of her thigh, meandering closer to where she needs him, her impatience grows overwhelming. She complains and orders, but that only fuels his devotion to make her wait. But when he gets there, when his lips finally reach her folds, that contact alone makes her legs quiver. He braces her, his hands supporting her ass, keeping her leg over his shoulder. And he devours her, doing all of the things he's promised. His tongue samples the wetness from inside her, delving as far as he can within. His lips surround her clit, sucking and lapping it like a tiny popsicle made of his favorite flavor. He brings her to the edge time and again, so close but never reaching the goal she's set on.

She misses the sensation of being filled, even whispering that suggestion to him more than once, but his hands stay planted on her rear, pressing her sex to his face again and again and again while he does the most wonderful things with his mouth.

This time as she gets close, probably _almost_ coming for the fourth time, she actually gripes because she thinks he's going to drop back again and leave her short of fulfillment. When he doesn't, when he allows the pleasure to continue, the surge hits with a swell she feels all through her. He does not pause or relent, lavishing such persistent stimulation, hitting so many of the right notes.

She has fists of his hair as she tries to keep herself upright, the available energy in her body refusing to be routed to her legs to prevent her downfall.

As she tries to melt to the floor, he directs her descent. This is one of those times when his affection for her is apparent, blinding really. He carefully holds her, bringing her into his lap. He rumbles softly, "Have I ever told you how much I love making you come?"

Her answer is slow to emerge. "We have so much in common," she sighs, "I love that, too." She reaches out and touches his lips with one extended finger. She's giggling breathlessly, both in response to the intensity of the orgasm and her own joke. "I think I finally figured out why so many women agree to marry you."

He's both smug and a tiny bit insulted (or at least he pretends to be). He instantly recovers. "So you're saying it's not just my charming personality and good looks? I really _am_ the complete package."

She shakes her head, knowing the look she's giving offers a full-frontal glimpse at how she feels about him. Right now, she minds showing that side of herself much less than she used to.

Kate kisses him slowly, the taste of the two of them mingling on her tongue. Reaching between them, she shoves her hand into his boxers, eliciting a guttural sigh as his physical needs are beginning to be met.

"I'm calling the shots," he reminds.

"You're right," she replies, pausing, softly drumming her fingers on his sex like she would on a table when she's bored. "I'll wait here for further instructions," she quips.

"You just so happened to be doing exactly what I wanted you to do."

He stands, pulling her to her feet with a kindness that seems to remain no matter the context. It makes her feel so…_loved_. She tries to forget that word, afraid it will cross her lips in an impassioned moment, and she won't be able to take it back. She's not sure either of them are ready for a word like that.

There are condoms in this room, as there are in many strategic locations throughout this place. They joked about 'squirreling' them each time they stashed some in one room or another, and that they'd have to remember where they were all hidden so they could either use them or gather them up before anyone else arrived.

In truth, she was the instigating force early on behind hiding them in different rooms, mostly because she didn't want to get carried away at some point and forego caution. He sometimes _nearly _has that effect on her, but she has yet to forget herself that fully. When she gets home, she'll probably look into other birth control methods, which, to her, implies a definite degree of couplehood.

She moans with pleased relief when he drops her on the pool table and finally plunges into her. He bows with silent gratitude at the initial onslaught of tight pressure around him. She adores seeing him in that moment, every time, watching the juxtaposed vulnerability and strength combined that he experiences each time they're joined.

"You have no idea how much I need this. How good you feel, how amazing it is to be inside you," he manages to choke out. "You're...perfect," he adds, lifting her torso to his.

"I'm not, Castle," she answers immediately, nearly pulling away. Although she's adept at hiding it from the world, she's all too aware of all of her imperfections, and the problems they pose.

"Perfect for me, then, like this," he revises, taking a heartbeat or two before he begins to move again, his eyes drilled on her when he pushes his body back into hers, her form tensing with graceful delight as she gasps.

She doesn't answer, so he slides his hand around her waist and adds, "You wanted to know the thoughts in my head. Not the pretty ones, the real ones. So I'm telling you. You feel so, so incredible...like we fit together exactly right. I can't begin to describe what it's like, being with you. How it makes me feel when you want me."

He begins to move more powerfully, his patience tested as needs rise. She curls up to him, her fingers clawing at his flesh to bring him near. His groans are so deep, coming from a place far within him. She stares at his face, waiting for his eyes to unscrew and open, although she isn't sure they will until they're through. When she holds his jaw, they do flutter open, seeking her out. "Me too," she nods earnestly, no other words necessary.

He bobs his head in return, his smile, faint but heartfelt. All the while, they never break their preferred rhythm. The feelings are always there, dancing between them.

It surrounds her again (and almost every time), the sensation of sexual excitement paired with emotional overload. She is still not used to _feeling _at this level. It's the sensation of drowning in so many emotions of so many varieties that it creates an entirely new emotion as yet unnamed.

The words are gone, the desire, the pull between them too overpowering to allow more thoughts to reach ears, both unaware that her stay is about to come to an abrupt end.

* * *

Every morning and evening they each check their phones, and this evening is no different. Kate typically looks at hers for a few seconds, finding reminders for her utility bills or coupons from her favorite restaurants delivered to her inbox. Occasionally she gets a text from Lanie, who is, _Just making sure you're alive. _When she's quickly finished checking in each time, she powers it off and forgets it.

Castle typically has more interaction with the outside world. He calls his family and listens to reminders (threats) about deadlines. Sometimes he quickly peruses social media until he is distracted by her.

This night just before bed, she is the one listening to long messages and pouring over texts. Even before she hangs up, it is clear that her break from reality is almost done. As she drops her phone on the bed without turning it off, her expression one of concerned pain, he asks, "What happened?"

"The Captain called, so did the boys, and someone from the commissioner's office. One of the unis, Melinda Velez…she and her daughter were murdered. I have to go home."

* * *

**A/N2-Next Chapter: Back to NYC.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 9

Kate leaves a few minutes after the phone call with Montgomery. Rick doesn't blame her (it seems much like swiftly ripping off a bandage). It is all over so quickly, and he hasn't had time to prepare. While she packs, he listens as she says, "I'll take care of this case and then we'll take a few days away again in a month or two. They still owe me the rest of my time off."

He is often awed by how well she does her job, but right now he wishes there was a better detective to take on this case. It is so damn unfair that they are robbed of their last few days in hiding.

"I'll handle the case, you work on your book, and we'll plan another trip down the line." She adds, "Sacrifice now, reward later."

"Hard enough to convince you the first time. You really think I'll be able to talk you into carefree vacationing _twice_?" he only half teases.

"Positive," she says, kissing his cheek.

He waits while she warms up her bike and fastens her helmet, and then feels a most unpleasant sinking feeling as she rides away.

* * *

During the next week and a half, Rick writes and catches up with his family. He's pretty sure his mother is suspicious (_You look awfully good for someone who was so recently dumped_). He's positive she didn't buy his excuse for sleeping in the guest room for a day or two after they arrived either. It's possible she saw the pictures from the picnic, or she heard something about the wedding they'd attended, but he doesn't think so. Martha wouldn't mince words if she had decent gossip to build her inquiry upon.

He speaks to Beckett daily during that time, although the calls are often short and interrupted. He does find texts from her lighting his phone, and sends his share back. When they finally find an evening to meet, it feels like it has been years since he's seen her.

She rides up to the Hamptons on a clear summer night when Martha and Alexis have plans. He can see the difference in her as soon as she walks in. Beckett looks so far gone from the women who instigated strip pool or did a cannonball while swimming in his back yard. The easy going smile has vanished from her expression, even though he truly believes she is happy to be with him. In fact, she crashes into him the moment she can, murmuring _Missed you_ more than once as she drags him to the guest room that was once their shared room.

They find their sought connection in a whirlwind embrace, every bit as good as when she'd stayed with him, maybe even better. At least that hasn't changed.

When he holds her in bed, he asks her about the case, and she simply answers, "Trust me, Castle, I've got this one. Besides, I need you to finish your book…maybe come back and work with me on the next case…if you still want to."

"Are you kidding? I can't wait 'til I'm back."

"Me too."

Only two hours after she arrived, she gathers her things to go back to work, telling him only that Lanie promised her the results of two more autopsies. Certainly that has him intrigued, but she is gone again before he can pry for answers. He already misses the sound of her laughter and the way her whole face used to smile.

When Martha and Alexis return late that night, he's typing, determined to finish the book and get back to police work with Beckett.

He sees her again nearly a week later. They meet somewhere midway since she has even less time to spare than before. By now she looks entirely drained, and he is truly concerned. He's seen her handle a lot of cases, but very few seem to wear her down like this one. He wonders if her exhaustion is exacerbated by the fact that she was forced to return to work without warning, her time off interrupted.

After all, their abrupt separation is harder on him than he ever thought it would be.

He offers to take a break to come help her, but she insists he doesn't want to know about this case. Somewhat urgently, she asks him to stay focused and meet his deadline so he can come back to work with her. He's so pleased that she's so enthusiastic for his return that he doesn't even argue. Of course he also decides he's going to poke around and see what this current case is about.

When he returns to his place in the Hamptons that night, Martha has newspapers spread on the counter. The first thing she says is, "Do you think Detective Beckett is safe? Why would they have her of all people leading this investigation? And so prominently!"

Rick is stunned as he reads the headlines, _Killer Targets Women in Law Enforcement_ and _Serial Murderer Hunts Women in NYPD_. Both articles mention Beckett as the lead investigator.

"It's almost like they're using her as bait," Martha notes. "Have the two of you spoken recently?"

"She won't talk about this case," he shakes his head, feeling not only concern but frustration._ Why in the hell wouldn't she mention this?_

Their relationship may be new and a bit unofficial at this point, but he believes he deserves to know if she's in danger (more than usual).

His irritation is mitigated when he thinks about a crazed serial killer on the loose, possibly targeting Kate, and he can't take it. He can't sit safely in the Hamptons while she's being dangled in front of a murderer. Rick spends the night writing.

By morning there is only one chapter left to write and a few days of reworking ahead, but he can say that he's (mostly) done. For now. He has to get back to Kate, whether or not she's ready for him. If anything, he'll throw all he can into this case, into finding this guy so he can keep her safe.

As he drives back to the city (now that he has a car again), he schemes about ways to take her away until all of this blows over. Maybe Beckett could be swayed by a few days in Fiji, or Bali, or a wild European tour? He could come up with _something_ to tempt her away from this. _Probably not until the case is solved._

He keeps picturing the gaunt look on her face, and wonders what kind of hell this has been for her. He pulls up some research that his phone reads to him in a predictable, mechanical voice as he drives. All of the adult women killed, three in all, were cops. All were detectives or seemed likely to become one shortly. Surely Beckett, a successful and notably prominent detective, would be seen as quite a prize to a killer like that. One victim is an outlier, a girl, eleven years old, the daughter of the first woman killed. All sources seem to believe she was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Rick goes directly to the precinct without stopping, finally hitting the elevator button to go to "their" floor. He's missed this place.

He isn't sure what her coworkers think. Were they annoyed or disappointed that he left for the summer? Is he really welcome here? Clearly they have no idea about the relationship that has formed and grown between him and Kate. He's also convinced that Beckett herself might not be thrilled to see him since she told him to wait until the case was over to return.

Walking onto the floor, he sees Beckett, her expression emotionless, shoulders showing the weight of her job. Ryan, Esposito, and the Captain are there, too, hovering around her desk. She looks up and sees Castle, and he is prepared for her disapproval. (It wouldn't be the first time he received that look...he can handle it.) He doesn't really care if she disapproves or not right now; he needs to be with her.

But her face doesn't show disapproval in any way. A smile crosses her lips, signifying relief rather than happiness, but he's pleased as hell to see that response.

He realizes that Montgomery, Ryan, and Esposito all see her expression, too, and probably the slightly love-struck one he returns. Rick also doesn't care how this interaction is perceived, he just wants to be by her side.

The Captain and Beckett are called away, but as she walks past Rick, she squeezes his arm and whispers, "So good to see you. Be back as soon as I can."

The boys catch up with Castle for a few moments, and at the first possible opening, he asks, "So you get the guy?"

Ryan answers. "Closing in, I hope."

"This one's a special kind of scumbag," Esposito chimes.

"Almost fooled us all. Almost fooled _her_," Ryan adds. "So when she figured it out, it was some impressive investigative hellfire she rained down on his ass."

"The cop killer?" Rick verifies.

"Kind of, but it's more than that," Esposito replies. "The first time was domestic. Then he went and took out two more cops, wanted it to look like a vendetta against female detectives. Thought that would keep suspicion away from him."

Castle says, "Murder? Cover ups? I can't believe you guys didn't call me in."

"You were busy in the _Hamptons_ with your _girl_, Gina," Esposito taunts.

"Didn't work out," Castle replies (a helluva summary if he's ever written one).

"Nah, Beckett was right…you didn't need to see this one," Ryan explains. "She said fathers like you shouldn't see stuff like this."

"She was right," Esposito states certainly.

"Fathers like me? What's that supposed to mean?" Rick asks, a little offended. If anything, his role as a father might have helped motivate him.

"It's not an insult. What that guy, McKie, did to his own child and his wife," Ryan shakes his head. "All because she was thinking about leaving. Well, that...and he's a psycho. Cases with kids are always hard."

Suddenly so much becomes clear. He knows why she kept him away. She was trying to protect him.

Esposito adds, "But he doesn't want to get caught, knows spouses are always the first suspects."

"So he takes out two other cops, leaves a bunch of crazy rants and graffiti on the walls," Ryan says.

Ryan steps away and Esposito seems intent on sharing information. Rick thinks it's to question that first exchange when he and Beckett finally saw each other again, or maybe dig for other personal information.

Esposito explains, "Beckett…she thought McKie was a victim in all this…thought he lost his wife and kid. You could tell she empathized. You know, similarities between this guy and her father, and all he went through when her mother was killed."

"Understandable."

"When she figured out McKie was the killer…"

"She lost it."

"Nope," Esposito shakes his head. "There's Beckett, cool as a cucumber."

"Doesn't mean she doesn't care," Castle says, hearing the way he sounds defensive already.

"Yea, bro, I know. She got him, hunted him down like the animal he his. Calm, collected, methodical. When that street sludge is behind bars, it will be because of her. But this one…hit her hard. She's barely eating, even skips 'family' meals with us here at the precinct. She won't go out for a drink after work, doesn't talk about it, about anything but the facts of the case. Once this is over, she can't keep it all shoved inside, can't stay detached, act like everything's fine. I've seen it too many times. It will eat her up and—"

A flurry of activity interrupts them, and Beckett dashes to her desk, swoops up her jacket, and says, "We've got the warrant. Let's go."

She takes a few steps, then turns back. "Castle, you coming?"

He scampers after her. _It's about time!_

As they ride to the scene, she briefs those in the response van (including Rick). "Matthew James McKie. 52 year-old Caucasian male. 6'4" about 190. He's killed his wife, daughter, and two additional cops, so he won't hesitate to take out a few more. Watch your backs and look out for each other."

There is excited tension in the van, like a jack-in-the-box, winding tighter and tighter, waiting to spring. All of the officers inside know the dangers, and all are eager to take him down. Or maybe they hope he'll resist.

The cops are suiting up with vests and gear. Castle feels naked without his vest, but it's probably somewhere in Beckett's squad car truck.

She faces him and whispers, "I'd tell you to wait in the van, but we both know how that would go." She offers a smile, but it's forced. It's all she can muster. Grabbing a vest, she says, "Put this on."

It says 'POLICE,' and he gasps, "For me?"

"Just this once," she replies wearily. She makes sure it's on properly, and it reminds him of a life preserver only a few weeks ago. She adds, pleading in her eyes, "Stay behind me. This guy is no joke."

Rick bobs his head, as if he's saying _Yea, yea, I know_.

"I'm serious," she adds, staring into him. "Please, Castle."

"I'll stay behind you the whole time," he says, the promise implied.

It's odd when they finally break down the door to the apartment. Rick expects a spy movie villain in a lair with over-complicated killing machines, or a cold-blooded murderer with a dedicated kill room. The door is broken down, and McKie only slowly stirs. There are orange prescription and empty whiskey bottles strewn across the coffee table. It is easy to see that not that long ago, this was probably a tidy home, with pictures on the walls, a study space, and well-chosen curtains. He doubts anyone who visited here a year ago had any idea of how things would turn out for this family. _How did it all go so wrong?_

As McKie tries to stand, Beckett gets him to the ground immediately. He's on his stomach, her knee braced at his back as she cuffs him. All the while he's laughing at her, a truly chilling sound.

"Detective," he drawls, "good to see you. Maybe we could hang out again. I have a new knife I'd love to _show_ you."

"Yea, too bad, I already have plans tonight, or I'd _definitely_ consider it," she returns, sounding every bit the collected cop as she begins to Mirandize him.

McKie interrupts, drunkenly, "If we could have a few minutes to talk, maybe we could do a little negotiating."

"I'll pass."

"Don't say I didn't offer. Maybe I left a little something out there for you…a little Easter Egg for you to find."

"Sure you did," she dismissively says, finishing her droning recital of his rights.

"What did he mean by that?" Rick asks the group after McKie is led away.

Beckett decisively answers, "He wants to negotiate. But I don't care what he's offering. He doesn't get a break no matter what he knows."

As the scene clears and crime scene staff come in to gather any additional evidence, things quiet slightly. Beckett goes to the station and deals with the most immediate paperwork, but Montgomery tells her to go home after a bomb squad conducts a search of her apartment (just in case McKie did leave an 'Easter Egg' for her to find). "After all," the Captain notes, "we can't have you blown up in your own apartment twice in a year, can we?"

The boys heard the threats McKie made when she arrested him, and reported them up the chain. Her squad car and home are given a thorough checking, even her locker is inspected, they leave no stone unturned. Sad how much a threat violates safety and privacy.

"He was just making threats, like tons of them do when we catch 'em. They just want to instill fear," she explains.

"Better safe than sorry," Montgomery counters.

"I could give you a ride home," Castle offers, and no one even gives him a second look. Beckett is so worn down that any friend or colleague would offer a ride.

When they get to his car, she asks, "Wanna crash at my place tonight?"

He's excited at the prospect since he's never even seen her new apartment, but everything is so solemn even after the arrest that was made. "Sure."

* * *

Beckett opens the door and holds it for him to enter. Her bags from her trip are still by the door, like she left the beach, dropped her things here, and was lost in the case. A report from the squad that swept her place for explosives or other anomalies is left on her table. "A normal person would probably feel violated rather than relieved that a bunch of people just searched her apartment," she chuckles humorlessly.

She hurries off to shower, and he sits in her living room and looks around the space, getting a sense of her personal life. After all, now that they're seeing each other maybe he'll be allowed into even more of her personal life.

Like her, the space is kind of classy, neat, sophisticated, but not showy. He remembers that he was angry with her on the drive back to the city for not telling him about the dangers of her case, but that has largely faded. He is a bit annoyed yet, but mostly concerned.

He doesn't want her to think she needs to shelter him from the tough times. He could have helped solve the mystery sooner, or at least served as moral support. And while it would have been hard for him (his role as a father connecting him to the case), it was probably hard for her, too, making connections with the suspect she once viewed as another victim, much like her own father.

He isn't _just _good at vacations, parties, and good times. He's far more all-purpose than that.

* * *

Kate goes straight to the shower. She feels like the dirt from that bastard she just arrested is sinking into her. She despises many of the people she arrests who've killed the innocent, but this one is definitely near the top of her list.

Castle's here. He's in her living room, waiting, probably studying her things. Still that's far less invasive than having her apartment swept by strangers. It's reassuring having him here, even when it feels like the world is such a dark, horrible place.

She wants to forget the sights she saw in Lanie's autopsy room. She wants to forget the way that cold-blooded killer touched her arm and thanked her for 'being there' for him when she first started investigating. She was there for him, like she would be for the families of all victims, no more, no less. Although when she looked at him, she thought of her father. It reminded her of when her mother died, and what would have happened if she had died, too, and her father had been entirely alone. McKie even smelled of booze in the days following the deaths in his family, and instead of feeling suspicious, she felt bad for him.

Now, looking back on the case, she feels nothing. Maybe a little nausea, disgust that there are people like him in the world who walk the streets, and no matter how hard she tries, she won't catch all of them. She wishes she could cry, hidden in the shower. It wouldn't be the first time she waited until a case was over to deal with the pain of it. She wants to let go of some of the ache. Tears don't even threaten to fall, like they're not ready to leave her yet.

Part of her feels dead, but that could be the exhaustion. She's not even sure when she last ate, or even slept more than a few minutes.

The moment she steps out of the shower, she goes to the living room, towel wrapped around her. Castle is at the door, balancing bags of food on his arms and in his fists. She's sure it's all delicious, but it doesn't even smell good. It will take some time to get rid of the pervasive twisting in her stomach.

Kate would say she's completely numb, but she's happy to see him, relieved that he's here. It's comforting to know her heart hasn't checked out of her to find a more hospitable host. Finally she's home, here, the case complete, with someone she trusts not to hurt her. People like that are hard to find. And she does trust him, even more than she thought. He feels kind of soothing, like a heating pad on an aggravated muscle that's been agonizingly constant for weeks.

"Hungry?" he asks.

She sees sadness in his eyes, worry, and she can barely look at him. She needs to forget.

"How long can you stay?" she asks.

"I don't have anything urgent tomorrow."

"Good. I have to go in at some point, finish my paperwork, but I don't have to leave here until mid-morning. Wanna stay 'til then?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

She takes the final two bags from him and deposits them on her table. Taking his hand, she leads him to her bedroom, and he doesn't argue. They both remove his clothes, so unhurriedly it could seem lazy, but it isn't. She doesn't complain when her wet towel falls on the hardwood floor and remains. Usually she'd pick that up.

Her first instinct is to find shelter, and she does. Pulling him on top of her, she settles into bed. He keeps shifting his weight so he's not resting too much on her, but she wants the heaviness of him, the tangible realism of his body over hers. It's not often she allows herself to find safety like this. He threads one arm under her, between her lower back and the mattress, and it feels like she's both covered and surrounded.

Of all of the now countless times they've been together, usually far more frenzied, exciting, and passionate, none have been so wholeheartedly interconnected as this. She's not a fragile person, prides herself on that, but she feels far more permeable than she usually is. For now, this is all she needs. She feels her defenses falling, the extra ones she's erected against this case and the rest of the world so she could survive these recent days.

Her release isn't only physical, it's emotional, and the tears that didn't fall in the shower flow freely as she lies beneath him, panting softly. In the quiet moments after, she knows the things she said. She whispered about how much she missed him. More than once she cried out how good he felt. It's possible she called him 'Babe' right before she came.

Whatever things she said, he remains, and shows no sign of pulling away. Castle's lying half on her, his hips resting on the bed between her legs, his head atop her chest. If only she could open her eyes and find herself floating at sea with him, stargazing and sharing thoughts of nothing.

Now that she's released a few tears, she's ready to dam the emotions back up, but they ignore her wishes. She hides her face, looking away in the dark just in case enough light pours in from outside and allows him to see. Fighting to control her body, she doesn't want her ribs to betray her stuttered breath and alert him to her sadness. He'll assume he did something wrong if he realizes.

After a few moments, she gets up.

* * *

Rick assumes she's getting up for the bathroom, so he moves up on the bed and waits for her to return. He's still worried, far too worried to sleep even though he hasn't rested in far too long.

It was probably their most tender and sweet time together, and he could almost feel her pain even in the presence of physical pleasure. It is surprising she even wanted him. When he saw her earlier, he thought she'd be cool and distant, as Esposito had warned, but alone together, she was the opposite.

Often she is quite assertive and insistent with him in bed, it's her personality, and he enjoys that side of her as well. But sometimes, being touched like this, sharing a slow, deep exchange, is amazing, too. The things she said, not just the words, but how she'd said them, resonate through him. She often says erotic things, hot things, while he's the one prone to more romantic embellishments. Over and over in his mind he hears the words _God, Babe _just as she'd said them, remembering the way he kissed her and swallowed the words to keep them.

He knows she's not gone, that woman he met and grew to know in the Hamptons. She's buried under painful rubble, but she's in there, and it seems like she's trying to reach out to him through it. Maybe this is proof that she won't pull away even when things are really bad. He knew the return to work and life would be tough, but had no idea how thoroughly they'd be tested immediately upon return.

When he realizes she isn't coming right back to bed, he gets up, puts his boxers on, and decides to find her. He hopes she's eating some of the vast menu he had delivered.

As he walks out of her room, he sees the bags are all still untouched, rolled at the tops, some stapled, the drinks still in their carriers.

He finds her on the sofa, wearing a loose tee shirt, sitting with her legs folded under her. Her head is braced in one hand. "Kate?" he practically whispers, but she jumps like he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Scrambling to wipe away her tears, she seems to think she may work quickly enough that he won't notice that she's crying.

"You okay?" he continues, sitting on the sofa near her, but still allowing her some space. "Or…as okay as you can be right now?"

"I'm fine," she says. "I was just hungry."

"If only we had food," he teases, looking at the bags.

"We should get to bed."

Ignoring the diversion, he says, "In case I haven't mentioned it, I'm more than just a good time."

"What?"

"I'm not only good for vacations, parties, and sex."

"I know that," she hurriedly snaps.

"You can trust me, Kate."

"You wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"You should have called me in for this case. I could have been here for you."

She shakes her head, staring forward.

"The boys told me you were trying to protect me from this one," he mentions.

Her shoulders and eyes drop.

He insists, "I can handle a lot more than you seem to think."

"I know that," she says, frustration emerging. "Just because you _can _doesn't mean you _should_."

"You don't have to handle things on your own."

"Castle, you don't know what—"

"I don't know because you didn't let me," he interrupts.

"I see how you look at Alexis, the way you talk about her, what she means to you. This case would have torn you up. I didn't want you to see that girl on the slab, or pictures of her wounds up on the board. Most cases, no matter how disturbing, I feel like maybe the world is a little better once we solve them, find the bad guys and put them away. This one…I just don't feel that. Putting him away…it isn't enough."

"What about you? Who's there to protect you and help you deal with everything?"

"What _about_ me? I'm armed. I'm trained to deal with this. Besides, I'm not a parent. It didn't affect me the way it would you."

"I wasn't only fascinated by you because you're hot and tough. I was intrigued by your empathy, by that connection you make. By your humanity. Try all you want, but you're affected…by every case, every time. And there was a killer out there, targeting female cops. You're a pretty notable female cop. So there's that issue, too. I think I deserved to know what you were up against."

"That was a cover-up to throw us off the real case."

"Two more cops were killed after the intended victim, Beckett. And they're dead whether it was a cover-up or not."

"You have no idea what it was like, going into that morgue, mother and daughter on tables side by side, and—" her words fall, and he feels her devastation. "Poor Lanie."

He comes closer, close enough to slide his arm along the back of the sofa and put his hand on her shoulder.

"He touched me, and that's when I knew," she chokes out, a confession shared on impulse.

"Who touched you?"

"McKie, the killer. I spent time with him on and off at the station. He hung out there during the day, claiming he was 'ready to help in any way, waiting for news about what happened to _his girls_.' I listened to his stories, heard him cry when he talked about them. Velez, his wife…she was on track to be made detective this year. She would have been a tremendous asset. And then we heard about the second cop who was killed. It seemed like there was a pattern, someone angry at up-and-coming female cops. It linked two of the victims. When the third cop's body was found, and I was on my way to the scene, McKie put his hand on my arm…" she covers the spot, her left forearm just above the wrist. "And he thanked me for helping him. Thanked me for delivering _justice._ Because he knew I would. That same hand that he used to take a knife to his own child and the woman he married."

Beckett's eyes stay on that spot, like she can disinfect it if she stares long enough.

"How did you know it was him?" Rick asks, gently.

"I can't explain it. Call it intuition or…I don't know. I didn't have enough evidence yet. But when he touched me, it felt cold. Made my spine ache, a weird hot chill shooting from the space where he touched me. The boys went with me to the morgue, they barely let me out of their sight once word spread about a killer after female cops, it was hard to even get away to see you. On the way to see Lanie, I told them he was the guy. I told them we had to build something iron clad. Crazy, right? Built the whole thing on a touch and a weird feeling."

"Seems like genius, since you caught the guy," he responds. "You build your cases on evidence, but you have good instincts. You know people. At least now your work is done with this and—"

"I'll see him again, I'll have to testify," she reminds Castle. "And there are some things, some cases that stay with you." After an expectant pause, she adds, "I really like working with you."

"And I you."

"But this job…it takes a toll. I don't want to see these cases drain the fun and the joy out of you."

"They won't."

She doesn't say more, doesn't have to. If he still had any doubts, they are at rest. She cares deeply for him, wants to protect him, his heart, his excitement, his joy.

This case has cut deep, caused a wound that will stay with her, a scar that will be thick and rough after it's healed.

He wants to hold her, but isn't sure if that's what she wants. But before he can question himself too much, she leans over against him, resting her head on his shoulder. It doesn't feel right to feel happy (because she's devastated), but it is damn good to be someone she counts on, even on days like these. She's made a choice: lean toward him instead of away.

She doesn't sob or fall apart, but she does surrender to his arms, to the comfort of being held. They're both awake after some time, wordlessly together. He waits for her to comment that it's the longest he's ever been silent, but the obvious jab eludes her.

He misses the simplicity of their days together at the beach, the free spirit she momentarily allowed out, but he wouldn't surrender this moment.

He reaches for the bag on the table, hand waving awkwardly as he tries to make his arm long enough to reach without moving her. Finally grabbing a crinkling package, he opens it and finds a fry and holds it in front of her. "No, thank you," she says, unhappily.

He bites the end of it, holding out what's left of the fry and watching it fall limply as he says, "Yea…cold fries," with distaste.

Groping for the drink carrier, he pulls out a shake. She is still disinterested, getting up from her position against him so he can help himself to the other bags. She leans sideways on the sofa next to him. He shows her various things, her favorite burger, even a 'beet, walnut, and bleu' salad she typically wolfs down. "Tomorrow," she sighs.

Eyeing her suspiciously, he plunges a straw into the thick milkshake that fortunately stayed cold enough. He caps the exposed end of the straw with his thumb to trap the desserty drink inside the tube and lifts it out, extending the end to her. Beckett stares blankly, like she can't believe he expects her to take it. "From Remy's…" he adds, tempting.

Glancing at him, then back at the straw, she puts the end in her mouth but takes the straw away from him, refusing to let him hold it for her. She doesn't expect to enjoy it, but when the cold chocolate hits her tongue, her eyes show appreciation. He holds out the cup, heavy for its size, and she finally takes it. "Almost forgot how good these are," she notes.

He takes his own shake from the carrier and a bag with their burgers, opening the paper surrounding each and spreading it like a plate, one for her and one for him. She only picks at hers, barely a full bite taken when all added up, but she finishes the milkshake. At this point, he's happy she's getting something into her stomach, so he's not going to push.

Her sheets are dark and welcoming, oh so soft, and when she takes him back to bed for the second time that night, she snuggles in next to him. "Sorry I'm so tired," she says, her lips too sleepy to properly enunciate.

"Why?"

"I thought maybe we could go again."

"We will. Lots and lots of times, just not tonight. There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere unless you make me."

She lifts her head up, like she remembers something that startles here. "How's the book?"

"Putting a few touches on the final chapter. I'll make some edits, but I'm almost done. They're really pleased with what I've sent so far. No more threatening calls about deadlines."

"Good," she replies as she settles. "Feel like coming to work for the next case?"

"Try and stop me."

"Tomorrow is just paperwork, so you don't need to be there for that."

"If you don't mind…" he tries, hoping she won't see through the offer, "I thought I'd bring my laptop and work there for the day. I need to soak up some of the NYPD-ness of the precinct. And watching you do paperwork is…inspiring."

She nearly snorts as she scoffs. "Inspires what? Snoring? Migraine? Coma?"

He doesn't answer, reassuringly rubbing her arm as he holds her close. There's no doubt she understands his desire to watch over her, but she doesn't comment on it.

"Sure," she eventually allows. "If you think it will help."

"Great," he softly accepts.

"Might be nice…having someone around to annoy me again."

"Ah yes. Duty calls," he replies, smiling against her forehead.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N-Sorry for the delay…I like to post at minimum once per week. I've been traveling a lot recently for work, and had some connectivity issues last night and lost my edits. Slowed me down a bit.

* * *

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 10

Castle sleeps so deeply that when he opens his eyes the sliver of light that cuts into Beckett's room feels like a high-powered laser shooting into his brain. He's certain he's disoriented because it looks like Kate is hovering up off the ground and sort of bouncing there.

As he finally dusts away the sleep, he realizes she's doing chin-ups on a bar that hangs from her bedroom door frame. From the sweat marks on her shirt, she's been exercising for a while. "I thought you didn't have to leave here until mid-morning?" he asks, although as he glances at the clock he realizes it's already half-past nine.

"I don't," she answers, forcing one more repetition before she lowers her feet to the floor.

"If you wanted to get sweaty you could have woken me up."

"Routine is good after…" she blanches for a moment as she knows exactly what things have happened lately, "…routine helps restore normalcy. I do this every morning before work unless I'm called to a scene. I run, come home, do calisthenics, strength training."

"Every day?"

"Every work day. Pretty much."

His eyes move to the bar and he suggests, "Maybe we should install one of those over the bed."

She smiles, but she's still a bit tentative, the pain in her a little less thundering, but not gone. Perhaps clinging to routine isn't a horrible thing.

"I'm going to grab a shower, get dressed. You gonna swing by your place to change?"

"Guess I should."

"You definitely should." Clearly she doesn't want to raise suspicions at the precinct, especially since he took her home the night before. "No reason you can't shower with me before we go, though," she floats the idea into the air.

He flings back the covers and chases her.

* * *

Kate can clearly go to the precinct on her own and meet him there, but when he asks her to ride along to his place for a change of clothes before going in, she agrees. One of those doubtful, self-protective voices in her head tells her it's not a good idea to lean too heavily on someone, but the world still feels like a better place _with_ him than _without_. Right now he is a place in the world that isn't painful, an oasis in a desert, and although it takes effort, she goes with it.

* * *

Alexis and Martha are reading a script at the kitchen counter when Beckett and Rick arrive. Beckett hasn't seen them since they started dating. Martha offers a polite cheek-kiss to Beckett and says, "We are in the presence of a true hero…of course we knew that long ago."

"Oh, no, Martha, not at all," Kate shakes her head. "We're a team, all of us. I never could have solved it alone. Even though he's been busy writing, your son came back in time to help make the arrest."

"I can't take credit for this one," he counters, his hand going to the middle of Beckett's back before he reminds himself to refrain from touching her.

"Tonight you must come and celebrate," Martha insists.

Castle sees how the thought of 'celebrating' bothers Kate, so he says, "Beckett's been working long hours, I'm sure she just wants to go home and–"

"Pssshhh," Martha silences him with a wave of her hand. "You'll come, won't you, darling? Just dinner with close friends. Please, allow us to show some token of appreciation."

"Sure," Kate finally says. Martha can be very difficult to turn down. "I can't stay late."

Rick thinks about trying to save Kate from dinner with his family, but an evening with Martha is almost always a pretty big distraction, and sometimes amusing. _Unless you're me…in which case you're more often humiliated than amused_, he considers.

* * *

Castle types with his laptop perched on his knees. Kate offered him an empty desk nearby, but he just wants to sit next to her in _his_ chair. He belongs here at her side, watching her back as she does paperwork and makes calls (although he does manage to get some writing done on that final chapter).

It's probably good for her to be there, her precinct family present and supportive, but they understand her boundaries. She's surrounded by friends. Throughout the day, a few people come to see her. There are cops who thank her for her work on the case, especially friends of the victims.

Reporters reach out for quotes. When she has trouble coming up with answers for their requests, he jots down a few lines on paper. He can see, initially, that she wants nothing to do with these suggestions. She's actually quite agitated that he'd attempt to put words in her mouth. But an answer doesn't come immediately, so she looks at his notes, at first with disgust and then with gradually building approval. She paraphrases one or two of his ideas, then bobs her head, covers the mouthpiece on the phone, and says, "Pretty good."

Of course it is…he's a devout Beckettologist, and he's been writing words for her character long enough to know what she'd say if she were feeling better.

As the work day nears its end, Rick attempts to count the number of times someone has said they sleep better at night thanks to cops like her, but he is unable. Even if there are horrible people out there, she makes the world a little better. This is her moment in the spotlight. He's used to the spotlight, and even after she's become more notable in the wake of the first _Nikki Heat _book, she still isn't accustomed to it. She accepts the offered gratitude with humility (and maybe a little embarrassment).

He's proud, very much so, standing by as her...uh…_boyfriend? Partner? Special companion? _He shakes his head at the last option.

The last few minutes of the day tick away as she silently wraps up her paperwork, but movement catches his eye behind her. Castle knows who has come to visit, but the familiarity doesn't please him at all. It's Demming, fucking Demming, patiently waiting for her time. Castle shouldn't despise the guy so much since Kate stopped seeing him months ago, but the distaste remains.

"Can we talk for a minute?" Demming says as he comes to her desk.

Rick knows he should make an excuse to give them a moment, but he doesn't.

"Sure," Kate replies, standing and walking with Demming as he talks.

Castle can't hear, and does his best not to follow. Demming shakes her hand, using both of his to surround hers. It would be clear to any onlooker: Demming still has feelings for Kate.

Rick doesn't really mind keeping their relationship quiet, well, he _didn't_…until now.

He considers walking up to her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her right there on the middle of the floor. And he admits it's possessive, driven by some insecurities below the surface, but why leave room for confusion?

_Wonder what she'd do?_

Yea, she would not find that gesture romantic in the least. Castle realizes this is only the second day they're back at work and he's already dying to scream _We're together!_

He decides to get coffee, taking the path that leads him kind of close to where Kate is standing, just in time to hear Demming say, "Where'd you meet him?"

"Took a road trip earlier this summer," Kate confesses.

"Is it serious?"

"Umm…" she glances at Castle and then says something quietly to Demming that Castle can't hear. He'd love to have her answer to that question.

At this point Rick's going so slowly toward the coffee machine that he's pretty much standing still.

"_Castle_, hi," Demming says, his obvious dislike dripping.

"I have to get going," Kate says, "but thanks for coming up. I appreciate it."

As Demming leaves, Rick asks her, attempting to mask his excitement, "You told him about us?"

"No. Not exactly. Don't worry, our secret's safe," she says, like she's squelching his panic.

He doesn't want to be safe. Not that he's ready for his mother to know, but he wouldn't mind everyone at the precinct knowing (as well as any interested, adult male within a three billion mile radius).

"What did you say?" he prods.

"I told him I met someone. Didn't say who. He wanted to get dinner, talk about things."

They gather their belongings, and as they walk to the door, he asks, "So this thing with the _guy_…the one you met on your…" he continues under his breath, "extremely short-lived road trip that turned into a vacation filled with epic romance, fun, adventure, and the best sex of your life."

"_Epic_ romance? Best sex of my _life_?" she chuckles as they get on the elevator.

"Tell me it's not true…I dare you," he challenges, hoping to hell she feels that way. He knows he does.

As the elevator doors close she replies with a flirty half-smile, "Afraid I can't deny it."

* * *

The evening with Alexis and Martha is nicer than Kate had anticipated. She thinks Castle probably asked them to avoid discussing the case. Besides a few comments of appreciation, they talk about other things.

When Martha whips out a script and asks them all to read lines, Kate shakes her head and says, "I couldn't."

"This evening wasn't for _Beckett_," Rick accuses, "it was an excuse to have another victim to run lines with."

Alexis chimes in, whispering, "It's kinda fun. Just don't take it too seriously."

"It must be taken seriously; it's the theater!" Martha corrects.

"It's the kitchen," Castle adds.

Since dinner isn't ready yet, Kate decides it's probably better than talking about reality.

Martha assigns roles.

Castle is given the parts of a little old woman always found in a rocking chair (Martha's character's mother, a hilarious twist of roles), and an ill-mannered ruffian who works as a farmhand (it is quite amusing to see him play the role of tough guy). Alexis reads the villain landlord and the down-on-her-luck southern belle eager to help the old woman. Kate takes the part of a no-nonsense farmhand and friend of Martha's whom the ruffian has his eyes set on.

Martha's sense of humor in casting shines as Kate goes back and forth with Castle…sometimes he is the old woman bobbling in a rocker, and sometimes he's the ruffian she verbally fends off. Martha encourages her to really 'let him have it,' when the two fight in the script. Oddly enough, it's the fights between their characters that make their adoration harder to hide.

She realizes here, outside of the precinct, where rules are relaxed and the atmosphere light, how difficult it is to pretend that she isn't so incredibly taken with him.

When Castle performs the role of the old woman, he insists that Kate come closer and sit in his lap, forcing her to shake her head, Martha to look on with watchful amusement, and Alexis to say, "Dad! Inappropriate! Women today don't like when men try to take advantage of roles in life or work to instigate unwelcomed physical contact. Right, Detective Beckett?"

Kate tries not to smirk at Castle while she is supposed to be admonishing him.

All three women, arms crossed, gang up on him, Kate offering a secretly suggestive eyebrow raise at the end that makes his expression soften adoringly.

She wonders what it would be like if their relationship reached out of the shadows and into the daylight.

* * *

The next case, they both believe, is a softball thrown to allow her to get her footing. It's good to be working together again. The days are comparatively easy, the pair sneaking off for trysts at lunch and meeting up after work. For the most part, the secrecy is fun, and kind of hot. They share subtle touches and surreptitious glances, each knowing the private life they're sharing just outside of everyone else's sight.

They don't care for the way nearly all mornings dawn with them in separate beds, but perhaps it's for the best that they've slowed things down a bit. Since they started dating, they've barely eased off the accelerator.

As days pass, one into the next, Beckett seems to feel a little better. There's still something about her that seems different, but he can't quite place it. The exhaustion from the Cop Killer case lingers in her. But it's not all bad, she's more prone to naps and longer cuddles after the fantastic sex they still share. All in all, Castle feels lucky.

The next case is more complex, something that engages both of their minds, and the two finish each other's thoughts as epiphanies dawn when they connect the dots that solve the case. They are still brilliant together like this.

As she wraps up paperwork from that latest case, he leans his elbow on her desk and asks, "You mentioned they still owe you the rest of your time off from when you left the Hamptons early."

"Yea," she replies, looking around to be sure no one can hear, "a few days."

"Remember the silent auction at the fundraiser? Well, I won one of the items I bid on. Caribbean island, secluded bungalow, sunsets, beaches, long hot days, _even hotter nights_? You, me and a barely-there bikini?"

"Do you own a barely-there bikini?" she teases.

He narrows his eyes.

She continues, "That sounds lovely, but—"

"You told me I would be able to convince you to take more days off."

"And I will."

"No time like the present."

"What will we tell everyone? Don't you think it's going to look strange if we both just happen to be going to the same island? I think they'll figure it out."

Some parts of the secrecy aspect are beginning to get old.

"Tell them you're taking time off…I'll say I'm writing since you aren't here to shadow. Come on, Beckett…after everything that's happened, don't you think you deserve a bit of relaxation?"

"Why not," she says, and he nearly falls out of his chair with surprise. "Just a couple of days, then I really need to get back."

"Really?"

"Yea. Let me talk to the Captain."

"Oh my god. This is…I can't believe it. I thought I might have to resort to chloroform and a chartered plane to get you there," he teases.

"Wow. That's romantic," she dryly replies.

"I'm going to go make some calls. You talk to Montgomery."

Castle gives her a knowing look before he bounds from his chair and heads for the elevator. He's practically whistling as he leaves the floor, turning back only once and seeing Kate smiling at him. That look never grows old.

The elevator doors open, and Castle steps aside to allow a delivery courier through. The man and his blue, soft-walled cooler hurry past Castle, probably delivering lunch. Such deliveries are an almost daily occurrence at the precinct.

Rick leans against the back of the elevator as the doors close, and even though he's excited, he wonders what it is that gives him such an unsettled vibe.

He checks the time on his phone, _10:45…kinda early for lunch._ And then, like he's running the whole thing in slow motion, his brain replays the exchange from moments ago. The courier was probably middle-aged, wore an army green jacket, cap, nothing all that strange. Then, remembering one final detail of the guy's wardrobe, Castle begins smashing buttons on the elevator control panel.

In the middle of the courier's faded and worn-out black shirt, there was a fuzzy blue bunny, carrying a basket full of eggs. _Easter eggs. Who wears an Easter shirt at the very end of August?_

Once the elevator doors open on the next floor, other people step on, and Rick sees the elevator is still going down. He dashes between the closing doors before they shut and hurries over to the stairs. Of course he hopes he's being paranoid. There are lots of graphic tee shirts in the world, and this one, like so many others, may be meaningless.

Castle bursts onto the floor. The courier deposits a container on an empty desk and walks toward Beckett as he rummages through the cooler bag. She is heading toward Montgomery's office.

"Kate!" Castle screams as he rushes to help.

She turns toward the sound of his voice as the courier closes in. No matter how fast Rick tries to run, it's too little, too late.

Everything happens too fast and in agonizing slow motion at the same time. There's a sudden scuffle between Kate and the courier before she pushes away, stumbling back toward her desk and retrieving her service piece. The loud cracks of gunshots follow, coming from not one, but two locations. She manages to shoot once, but Montgomery, standing nearby, fires four more times.

"Beckett," Castle says again, rushing to her side.

"I'm fine. I'm just fine," she assures very calmly.

It is Montgomery's worried visage that makes the extent of her injury clear. Rick steps in front of her and looks down at her stomach, seeing the rapidly creeping circle of blood that's spreading across the fabric of her off-white sweater. "You're hurt," he says, putting one hand against her back and pressing the other over the wound to slow the blood.

"Just a scratch," she calmly says, and he begins to believe her because she doesn't seem to be in any pain. Although the warm spurts of blood against his hand make it all too clear that the injury is more than superficial.

She looks down at the place where his hand is on her, perhaps even thinking of admonishing him for touching her in front of all of these people. When she sees the blood, the color drains more rapidly from her face as she grasps behind her for the desk to keep herself from falling.

An ambulance comes quickly, and he manages to force his way on board, although he isn't certain how, or why they allowed him.

Once at the hospital, she's taken from him. A team of professionals take temporary measures to care for the wound, and begin a transfusion and intravenous medication. They manage to stabilize her.

In a few moments, they'll take her into surgery. They allow him to sit with her as she waits. She doesn't look nearly as scared as he feels, but that could be shock. He holds her hand, almost fearing her easy, calm demeanor, concerned that it's resignation.

An anesthesiologist comes in and introduces himself. "Ms. Beckett, do you feel able to sign for yourself or should we locate your proxy?"

"I can do it," she replies.

"Looks like the surgery itself is pretty straightforward. There is a piece of the blade in your abdomen. We need to stop the bleeding, check for any organ and tissue damage. They'll know more once they get in there. With any luck we won't find any additional complications once you're on the table. I'm sure the surgeon explained all of this."

The surgeon hasn't been in yet, but neither Beckett nor Castle correct him since they're too busy digesting all of this.

The anesthesiologist continues, "Obviously the complications are increased due to your condition. We'll try to limit anesthesia to what is absolutely necessary, use drugs that are less detrimental to the embryo, but after traumatic events like this, spontaneous miscarriages have been known to occur. Since you're only a few weeks along that's always a possibility, even in the best of circumstances. Again, I'm sure the surgeon went over all this with you—"

"What's that now?" Castle interrupts.

"You grabbed the wrong file," Kate explains, still perfectly at ease.

The anesthesiologist confirms her name and date of birth, then says, "I'm sorry, I was told the surgeon already spoke to you. Were you unaware? When was your last period?"

"Mid-June? I'm a little late," she shakes her head, obviously disoriented and confused after the attack anyway. Rick doubts she even knows today's date.

"A little?" The doctor says, like Beckett is a bit irresponsible, "Typically at this point, most women would take a pregnancy test…just for future reference."

She sounds frustrated and embarrassed, "I've been under some stress. I assumed…"

"You're not the first person to assume changes in schedule are due to a little stress," he patronizingly replies.

Castle feels like at this point he should have noticed as well. Maybe he just assumed her cycle timed out perfectly with the absences they were forced to endure (as if life is ever so convenient)?

He counters, protectively, "She was the lead investigator on this serial cop killer case, so, no, it's not 'a _little_ stress.' Do you have any idea what—"

"It's okay, Castle," she interrupts.

"I apologize," the anesthesiologist says, sounding more empathetic.

"How far along?" Castle asks.

The doctor reviews the file after Beckett agrees to allow him to share the information and says, "I'm not an OBGYN. 7 or 8 weeks it seems, given the notes on the chart. Those tests are all preliminary. I'm sure a specialist could give you more information. Maybe a Fourth of July party that got a little out of hand," he jokes. "After surgery I'm sure they'll run more specific tests and answer all of your questions."

Beckett quickly signs waivers and when the doctor finally leaves, she says, "I didn't know, Castle. I thought it was stress…that case…and—"

"We'll figure everything out after you're feeling better," he insists, swallowing emotion as best he can.

"I know we didn't exactly agree to be exclusive, but there was no one else since you. I guess...I guess I just want you to know that."

"For me, too," he quickly affirms. "Don't worry about anything right now. We'll talk about all of this after your surgery."

"We might not even need to worry about it, depending on how things go," she says, looking like all of this is catching up to her.

He wants to know if she wants this. Does part of her like the idea of a baby, _their_ baby? This isn't the time to discuss such things.

"I want you to know, just in case something goes wrong during surgery—"

"Don't say things like that," he chokes up.

She continues, "No matter what happens or what decisions are made, I—"

Two people in blue scrubs enter, noting a drop in her blood pressure, and they hurry her away to the operating room.

* * *

Martha joins her son in the waiting room along with their family from the 12th. Lanie came as soon as she heard, and she's sitting between the boys. Montgomery worries like his own daughter is on the table.

Beckett's father is waiting, as quiet and as inscrutable as Beckett herself would be if she were sitting there.

Rick and Kate still haven't told anyone about their relationship, and if something happens to her, he'll be the only other person (besides medical staff) who knows about them and the life that might have been. He reassures himself that her surgery is simple, the doctor said so specifically. Right now she's his focus. _If she doesn't come through this…_he's entirely unable to finish that thought.

His mother joins him as he stares out a window looking over the city, replaying a hundred things in his mind. If only he'd been more suspicious of that courier. If only he'd taken her away sooner. Certainly there's something he could have done to protect her, to prevent any of this from happening in the first place.

"You okay, Kiddo?" Martha asks, a hand patting his back.

He doesn't know why he needs to confess. Maybe he just wants to say it aloud and make it real. He looks around to be sure no one else can hear and he whispers, "Beckett's pregnant."

"Oh," she nods, remaining surprisingly calm. "Well, you have a child with someone else. If she has a child with another man that doesn't necessarily mean things still can't work out for the two of you."

He turns toward her too quickly, feeling anger in response to that suggestion.

She tilts her head and asks, "Oh, Richard! The baby's yours?"

Staring back out the window, he nods. "We've been…seeing each other, met up in the Hamptons earlier in the summer. We haven't told anyone."

"You think I'm some clueless old woman?"

"No. I—"

"I've been trying to get you to confess for weeks."

"You knew?"

"I ran into Ciara. She told me about her wedding. About you and Beckett…and how in love you both seemed," she gently replies. She rifles through her handbag and says, "I also found this, under the table, right after we came to the Hamptons for the summer."

She hands him an invitation with the words, "Rick and Katie" on it. He remembers Kate telling him no one calls her 'Katie' but her father. But Ciara did. And it was at that very wedding that they both admitted they had something real.

He shoves the invitation in his pocket.

"She'll get through this. Kate Beckett is a force that cannot easily be stopped!" Martha declares.

"Yea," he replies, attempting to sound as certain as she is.

"As for the baby…I'm a firm believer in the fact that the most amazing things in life are the things you don't expect," she holds his shoulder firmly in one hand. "My beautiful son, how lonely, sad, and boring my life would have been without you."

She sounds so honest, and her kindness slams him with emotion. In his mother's eyes, this grandchild is practically already here and in her arms, but he knows it's not so simple. Everyone else is speaking in terms of 'embryos' and 'pregnancy,' and Martha is already saying words like 'baby.'

"With everything Kate's been through, the stabbing, the anesthesia, the surgery…don't buy booties yet."

Martha puts an arm around him in a half hug. "You are two of the most stubborn and tenacious people I know, and this baby will—"

He interrupts before she can finish the sentence, "Mother, I don't know what she wants to do yet. I have no idea how she feels about this. I haven't even really processed it yet. We haven't had time to talk. We found out minutes before they took her to surgery."

"Whatever happens, you'll figure it out together," she assures.

He worries silently for a bit, then says, "We were so careful. I was trying to figure out what happened. I asked the doctor about how far along she is, and..I think Beckett assumed I was trying to deny responsibility…" he pauses. This all hurts too much.

"But denying responsibility is the _last_ thing you want." She smiles lovingly at him. "When she's out of surgery, when she's feeling better, you tell her just that. This is all going to work out just fine, you'll see."

Alexis is coming their way, and he pleads, "Don't tell anyone. Please. I shouldn't have even told you."

"Lips are sealed," Martha promises.

Nearly an hour later, a pleased surgeon enters the waiting room. The space erupts with exclamations of joy and relief, Beckett's loved ones from work and home celebrating the successful surgery.

Martha whispers, "See...I told you everything will be fine."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N- Hey all. Thank you for your continued support for this longish story! (it's harder than the short ones!) Just a couple of chapters left. I already have an outline for the next story, for anyone interested**.

* * *

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 11

Beckett's mouth is horribly dry when she wakes, and her first instinct is to get up and figure out why everything feels…fuzzy. Since when were her arms so heavy?

"Castle?" she calls out as best as she can, her voice hoarse.

"Rest for now. Take it easy," a woman says, her pleasant voice and thick Dominican accent making the suggestion sound more exotic and appealing than it normally would. Her name tag identifies her as Isa Pabon. "You are in the recovery room. I'm an intern here, I'll be looking after you today."

The events that prompted her trip to the hospital rush back at Kate. "The surgery? It's done?"

"The surgery was a success," Isa assures. "The blade fragment was removed, and internal bleeding was resolved. Organs are all functioning properly. You were extraordinarily lucky."

Kate notes a tide of swiftly rising worry. "Am I still…" she whispers the next word like she's inquiring about a top secret government project, "pregnant?"

"They'll do some tests later on, after you're out of recovery."

"But…I'd really like to know now, either way."

Isa inquires gently, "You want to know because you _want_ to be, or because you _don't_ want to be?"

"That's a good question," Kate mutters.

A door opens, and Beckett sees Castle's head poke through the opening. Isa stands up and explains, "You can't be here. Who are you?"

"I'm…uh," it's clear he's making it up as he goes, "a representative from the NYPD here to check on our Detective."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I need to see her," he whispers in the most pleading way Kate has ever heard, stepping further into the room although uninvited. "Please."

Kate, surveying to be certain no other beds in the room are occupied, requests, "Could we have just one minute?"

"Absolutely not," Isa answers immediately, putting a 'stop' hand up in the air that pushes Castle back although she doesn't truly touch him. She's small, but surprisingly powerful, and although he's still looking into the room, his feet are planted in the hall just outside.

Isa goes to Beckett's bedside, puts a call button in her hand, and admits in a soft whisper, "My father was a cop." She winks and pronounces loudly, "No one is allowed in the recovery room except for patients and staff. No exceptions. But…I have to go to the restroom. Use this button if you need me. And hopefully no one breaks the rules while I'm gone."

The moment Isa is off the floor, Castle hurries to Kate's side. "You're alright?" he asks, looking her over like he can assess her overall condition with an x-ray stare.

"I think so."

"I was so worried. Worried you were gone, and I wouldn't get to see you or talk to you again."

"I'm okay," she assures, covering his hand with hers, the clear plastic IV tubes following her movements. "There's nothing to worry about."

He lifts her hand and brings it to his lips. "Your fingers are so cold," he notes as he attempts to warm them.

"Castle, I'm so sorry. I swear I had no idea I was…" she finds she can't say it. "I should have realized, paid more attention and—"

"There were so many signs I missed—"

"I take full responsibility."

"Hang on, I was one half of that baby-making duo…you can't take all of the credit," he interrupts, flashing his eyes.

She softly laughs, but quickly becomes serious, "I don't understand how this happened—"

"Well…" he begins.

"Castle, so help me, if whatever you are about to say begins with 'when a man and a woman…'"

He laughs, "I'm weighing my options. You're post-operative, so I may be able to outrun you."

"Seriously though," she insists, "Did I miss something? Did a condom break and I didn't notice or—"

"No. No broken condoms. Things got a little wild, but never enough that we weren't careful."

"Exactly. So how did this happen?"

He whispers, shaking his head, "All that's important right now is getting you better. We'll figure everything else out as we go."

"Is he dead?" she asks.

"Who?"

"The man…the Easter Bunny guy. When he approached, he said he had a little gift from the 'Easter Bunny.' Which I thought was really weird…an Easter Bunny in late-August? Then I remembered, but by then…"

"I can't imagine how he'd survive. Montgomery got a couple of point blank shots in him after you shot him."

"Espo and Ryan need to come in and take my statement. I swear I know him from somewhere. If McKie's still doing stuff like this from the inside—"

"Don't worry about that. They'll take care of it. Focus on getting better. You just need to—"

They hear Isa coming back (she isn't subtle about it), and Kate asks hurriedly, "Is my dad here?"

"In the waiting room."

"Tell him you saw me, and I'm going to be fine. Please." Kate frets over her father's reaction to all of this, and how he'll cope with the stress.

"Yea. I will," he kisses her fingers a few more times.

In the background, tiny Isa says with terrifying authority, "I certainly hope no one is in here, and I'll have to call security."

Castle nearly jogs out of the room, pausing briefly to say, "Thank you so much—" to the intern.

"I don't hear anything," she interrupts. As he leaves, she asks Kate, "Your husband?"

"No," Kate shakes her head. "He's my—the—sort of a—he's…the man I'm seeing."

Isa studies Kate suspiciously, hands her a paper cup, and says, "Have some ice chips. If your vitals look good over the next hour, we'll transfer you to a room. Although I understand you'll be under 24-hour police protection."

* * *

After she's moved to her room, Castle waits outside all night to see her. While the boys and the Captain take her statement the next morning, he hurries to the gift shop. He finds that none of the flowers available are beautiful enough to give her. So he orders some from outside. Even still, after picking exactly what he wants from the best florist he knows, the token feels insufficient. The usual gestures never feel like they're enough.

Baby or no baby, this whole thing has given him a pretty big slap of perspective. The prospect of losing her has shaken him horribly. The things he's seen should have prepared him for this possibly, but they didn't. He realizes he's never told her he loves her, and the thought that Beckett could have died without knowing how he feels is a possibility he does not wish to consider.

Rick is sitting in a small waiting area across from Kate's room with the bundle of flowers he had brought in for her. There are two uniformed officers standing guard beside her door.

He is a mass of nervous energy, so many unknowns hovering around him. He's worried for her, concerned about the attempt made on her life and the possibility that someone may return to finish the job. Then, of course, there's the unexpected news they received before the surgery.

Her father emerges from her room after a woman (some sort of medical professional who comes in a seemingly unending parade of medical professionals) needs to talk to Kate privately.

Jim's eyes fall on the full bouquet of flowers in Rick's arms, although he doesn't comment. Beckett's father doesn't sit next to Castle, or directly across from him, so it seems the anxious father doesn't want to interact.

Castle isn't exactly good at allowing Becketts who desire solitude to find it.

He swallows his worries and says, "Hi. I'm Rick Cas—"

"I know who you are, Mr. Castle," Jim interrupts, and then silence descends again. Eventually he adds, "I read your book, the one you wrote after researching my daughter."

"Oh?"

"The dedication was nice," Jim states.

"I'm…glad you liked it. I meant it, truly," Castle answers, ignoring the fact that it seems the older man is intentionally neglecting to mention the plot or characters of the actual story.

The silence is deafening, but Rick is at a rare loss for words. He's too full of concern himself to allay someone else's worries. But Jim looks crushed, absolutely drowning under the weight of his sadness and fear.

What is the right thing to say to the man?

_Beckett is tough, she'll be fine. _No, dismissing the very legitimate concern her father feels won't help the situation.

What about: _I'm the guy who's been secretly dating your daughter, oh, by the way, did you know she's pregnant? _Definitely not that one.

Instead he says with plainspoken honesty while he cradles the flowers meant for Kate, "Your daughter is the most amazing woman I've ever known," and with that, he stops talking, his focus falling on the sterile white floor tiles.

"Thank you," Jim answers, wringing his hands. "You have a child, right?" he asks. "I seem to remember Katie mentioning that."

"She talks to you about me?" Rick questions, wanting to dig for the details of every word Beckett has ever muttered about him, but he refocuses. This is yet another discussion he needs to table for a more suitable time. Instead he answers, "I do. A daughter, Alexis."

"Remember the day she was born?"

"Every second like it was yesterday," Castle smiles softly.

"I had so many hopes and dreams for her when she was born. She has given me more reasons to be proud than I can count. Without her...I don't know where I'd be today. But when they put my little Katie in my arms," Jim says, pausing as he allows the memory to engulf him for a moment, "I never imagined sitting here in the hospital like this, hoping she'll survive an attempt on her life."

"Probably every parent's worst nightmare."

"People like to tell me about the dangers of my daughter's career, as if I didn't think about them enough already. Explosives, semi-automatic weapons…people send me articles warning me about those bullets that are supposed to penetrate body armor. When I heard about the attack on Katie, I thought…all of the dangers out there, and I'm going to lose both my wife and my daughter to knives. Stabbings. Wouldn't that be odd…for them both to die that way?"

"Kate isn't going to die. Not from this, not today."

"She was such a mischievous girl. And a far, far more mischievous teenager," Jim says, still replaying memories in his mind. "Never would have imagined her becoming a police officer. When we received that letter in the mail, the one from Stanford…it was hard to believe that someone so rebellious, breaking curfew, running to god-knows-where with god-knows-who…could keep her grades up like that. She wasn't just _accepted_ to such a fine institution, but she also received scholarships. Held a job. Aced her classes, all while terrifying her mother and me. Strange, isn't it?"

"I don't know…" Castle ponders, "kind of sounds like exactly what I'd expect of her. Not that I know her as well as you do. Everything she does, she strives to be the best. I guess that applies equally to studying, working, and partying."

Jim smiles softly. "Johanna, my wife…" he says, waiting for Rick to show some understanding that he's following along. Castle nods, and Jim continues, "Her death changed Katie forever. She left Stanford, threw that all away, tossed aside any expectations for a life beyond work, beyond finding murderers. I often wonder what her life would be like if her mother were here. She would have made a wonderful lawyer."

"Of that I have no doubt. But she's an even better detective."

When the latest staff person leaves Kate's room, Jim asks to slip in for one more moment to say goodbye to his daughter before he heads out.

Castle swallows his nerves as he waits to go in. She still makes his throat tighten and his palms sweat a little, but he can't wait to get back to her. There are so many things he wants to say, so many things he wants to do, but for now he'll settle for just being in the same room as her.

Yet another person, a specialist with the designation "Counsellor" on her name tag, enters Beckett's room, and Castle knows he'll have to wait again.

Jim nods at him as he leaves, sauntering down the hall, no further words spoken between them. It is hard not to wonder if Jim Beckett will be a part of Rick's life going forward. Will they one day sit at the same Thanksgiving table? Will the two get to know each other better, bonded through their mutual love for Kate (and perhaps love for the child she might have.) Maybe their lives will overlap much more...or perhaps this conversation will be the longest one they will ever share.

Lately so many things make Rick wish their relationship wasn't secretive, but today that desire to come clean is screaming within him. He wants to be there at her side, not as the writer who shadows her, but as the man who loves her. He isn't just another coworker, or consultant, or friend. He _knows _her, he is a person in her life with intimate knowledge of who she is. They share something much more together. And yet he is left sitting outside of the room looking in, barred from the conversations inside.

He doesn't want to be on the outside.

His heart begins to ache when he considers the possible reasons why the counsellor might need to talk to Kate. Firstly, she was the victim of a violent act. Secondly, she was already suffering from the ill-effects of her previous case before she was even attacked. Thirdly, perhaps the counsellor is there to discuss the loss of her pregnancy. Although he hasn't heard of a miscarriage (they probably wouldn't announce it to him anyway) he hasn't spoken to her since the few minutes they had in the recovery room, and the odds are stacked in that direction.

Kate has endured much in her life, pains he can't erase for her. But he can try to help her move forward, heal, maybe find a little joy in her life. He hopes whatever happens in the next few days doesn't add to the litany of painful memories she carries in her heart.

The counsellor leaves after what Rick feels is several hours (it's only twenty-three minutes), and he greets the two cops standing watch at her door by name.

When he finally enters her room, he places the flowers in her arms and she weakly jokes, "Ordered enough flowers for my funeral just in case?"

"Way too soon to make death jokes," he replies, kissing her forehead and sitting on the edge of her hospital bed.

"They're beautiful," she says, looking down at the array of flowers surrounding dozens of red roses in the center, "thank you."

"I'm so glad to see you."

"You don't need to look so worried."

"I almost lost you."

"It wasn't that bad. I'm fine. Really. A few days and everything will be back to normal."

"This thing...what happened to you, it reminded me that we don't know about tomorrow, about what it might bring. And I can't sit around assuming there is always more time."

"I'm okay, Castle. Really."

"That's good. I'm really, really glad to hear that. Did they tell you anything else, or…" He wants to ask so many questions, all while remembering she was recently attacked and operated upon, so she may not want to deal with much more.

She sips water from a heavy plastic cup with a bendy straw, perhaps because of thirst, or maybe she's buying time. Clearing her throat, she explains, "I had a few tests done this morning. They took some measurements of the…the…embryo. In the interest of full disclosure, I want you to know it's definitely yours. There's no doubt or grey area. Not that I expect you to take my word on it, and depending on what happens, I'd agree to a paternity test if you want one."

"I don't think you'd lie about that," he calmly replies.

"But I don't expect or require anything from you," she's quick to state. "I'm not after your money or—"

"Wait," he interrupts, greatly disliking the current direction of their discussion. "I know you better than that. A woman who abandons what is sure to be a lucrative legal career for the thankless and underpaid life of a cop isn't a person ruled by money."

"Here's the thing, Castle…I want to put it all out there and let you know what I'm thinking…"

"Please do."

"I'm not completely sure yet, but I'm definitely considering going through with it…if everything is okay. I'm wondering what you think about that possibility."

"You are?" he tries not to grin.

"A lot of things have happened lately, but you…this thing with you has been good, unexpected. At least for me. I keep thinking about what I said when I told you about that road trip I never really got to take…that for once I wanted to kick back and see what life has in store for me…Live in the moment, let life happen. Maybe…maybe _this_ is life happening. But it's terrifying, too, because everything will change."

"Lots of things would change, but not _everything_." He wrestles to stay neutral during this conversation, and she mistakes that wrestling for displeasure.

She quickly adds, "We can still keep this thing between us quiet. No one has to know. I don't want to ruin things for you or turn your whole world upside down."

"You turned my world upside down a couple of months ago," he says gently, "you've made it better." Then he adds more severely, "You think I could deny my own child? That I'd sit back and act like I have nothing to do with the person we created together?"

"I don't want you to feel trapped by a mistake—"

"It's unanticipated, that much is true. But not a mistake. If this works out, that little guy in there has overcome a pretty daunting start to get here. Wouldn't consider that a mistake."

"You know how crazy this is if we go through with it, right?" Beckett asks. "We've been together a couple of months. No one close to us even knows—"

"Someone _may_ know," he winces.

"How?"

"Because I told her."

"Who?"

"Mother," he hisses his breath in sharply between his teeth. "I'm sorry. You were in surgery, I just heard about you and the baby, and I…I was worried and upset and I wanted to say it to someone just once. Felt like if I said it aloud…it would be real."

"You want this?"

"I want you, Beckett, with or without a baby."

"But…if you could choose? Are you sure you really want to start all over again? Go back to diapers and spit up…"

"There are diapers and puke, that's true. But there are those smiles. And the way it looks when they hold your finger with those tiny little hands. And when they cry and they're so upset, like their whole universe is in ruins, but you pick them up and hold them, and they stop crying and they snuggle in, and that's all they need to feel like everything is okay."

"I figured if you wanted more kids, you would have had them when you remarried."

"With Gina? God, no!" he immediately counters. "I love Alexis, I've never had a single moment of regret. But being a single parent is daunting stuff. And Meredith... well, even when she was around, I was on my own a lot. I always thought if I did it again, I'd find the right partner. And we're one spectacular team." He continues, feelings deluging forth. "So yea, I want it. But I don't want you to feel trapped either. And I don't want to get my hopes up if…"

"If it doesn't work out," she finishes the thought.

"Yea."

"I could show you something. If…if you're already sure this is something you want to consider. I don't want to show you unless you feel relatively certain, because I don't want this to sway you—"

"What is it? Show me."

"I had those tests earlier, some were with an obstetrician. They tried to find a heartbeat. Apparently once they can find one, the risk of miscarriage drops quite a bit."

She takes her phone from the table, taps the screen, and waits while he maneuvers so he's sitting next to her. When she hits play, they both look at the video, a grainy black and white image of a computer screen. He can see Beckett's name and date of birth labeling the image at the top left hand side. In the center there is something so small, a tiny mark, really. But he knows already how life-altering marks like this can be.

"See," Kate says, pointing at the way the focal point seems to hop, "that's the heartbeat."

"_After_ the surgery?"

"Yea. About two hours ago."

Not only can it be seen, but it is also heard, the rapid thud-thud-thud playing from the speaker of her phone. To the right side of the video, more data points appear. He can see measurements of various kinds, and she adds, "152 beats per minute. Apparently that's normal."

Castle pauses, jaw hanging slightly, as he stares at the image. Tears form in his eyes almost immediately. He finally shakes his head and says, "I can't believe it."

"You sure you're okay?" she questions.

"I'm great," he replies bluntly. "Truly fantastic. I mean...if you are."

"Yea," she says, her eyes welling also. She seems as taken by his reaction as she is by the video itself.

When it's over, he asks, "Watch it one more time?"

Her smile, the huge, broad, cannonball-into-the-pool grin, breaks across her face as she agrees. And his heart melts, because even if he _should_ wait to get excited about this, and be cautious and careful, he's in love with both of them already.

They watch the video once more, and he senses Kate studying him. He rolls on his side to face her, his palm moving to her belly. She hisses in pain when he bumps the bandage over her incision. "God, I'm so sorry," he hurriedly responds. "I got caught up and forgot and—"

"Here," she offers, moving his hand low on her belly to a safe place and covering it with hers.

The flowers are in the way as he tries to snuggle up next to her, so he moves them to the table and very carefully gets back in her bed. He rests his head on her shoulder and gets comfortable, and she leans her cheek on the top of his head.

A few people enter the room as he visits. One cleans her room, and a few take vitals and bring drinks. A nurse checks the incision, but Kate doesn't even ask Rick to leave then, so he stands respectfully on the other side of the room and looks out the window. He can see the very same skyline he saw the night before, but oh how different the world looks today.

One of the nurse's aides brings him a drink, too, and tells him she knows it's been a long day for everyone. Lanie stops by, and he goes a few floors away to the cafeteria to get himself some dinner, feeling safer since someone who loves Kate is at her bedside. (He has no idea what Lanie's formal defense training is, but he has no doubt Beckett is in good hands.) As he walks out of the room, he hears her say, "Now _those_ are some nice flowers."

Lanie leaves shortly after he returns, and he definitely feels her observant stare all over him. When she's gone, Castle asks Beckett if she told her best friend about the things that are going on.

"Not yet. I want to wait until the greatest risk has passed. I didn't know if I should tell her about us yet. We didn't really talk about that. But I don't think it will come as a surprise."

"Should probably get you settled at home first," he answers.

"There is one other person who kinda knows," she confesses. "Well…knows part of it."

"Who?"

"My dad. He told me he saw you in the waiting room, how worried you were. The way you sat outside guarding my door, trying to protect me. And he told me…"

"Told you what?"

"That he thinks you're in love with me," Kate says, her voice betraying a slightly nervous quiver (which can be heard if one listens very carefully...which he certainly does).

When Castle lifts his eyes, she stares right at him and waits for confirmation, deflection, or outright denial.

"He's very perceptive," Rick states, admitting the truth without spelling it out. "Not that I hid it well. What was your response?"

Her eyes drop nervously, and she admits, "I told him I hoped so…because I'm in love with you."

"You are?"

She nods.

"You told him that?"

She nods again.

"Why didn't you tell _me_?" he asks.

"Why didn't _you_ tell_ me_?" she counters.

"I didn't want to mess things up. Didn't want to push for more if you weren't ready for more."

Beckett sighs tiredly, like she understands perfectly well what he means. "If it doesn't work out with the…" she looks down, still avoiding the word. He thinks maybe she's worried calling it a 'baby' is too much like counting unhatched chickens.

"If it doesn't work out, that doesn't change anything for me, at least not how I feel about you."

"Me neither."

"Good. And _if_ it doesn't work out, we could always try again if we want to...when we're ready."

"Yea," she agrees softly. "I have another appointment in a week to check growth and make sure everything is okay post-operatively. If you still feel the same then...you can come along and see for yourself, hear the heartbeat and whatever else they can tell us."

"I'll be there," he vows immediately. He wants to be present whether it's to share joy and a glimpse at the heart that beats because of the love they share, or if it's to receive difficult news.

He holds her so quietly, her arm around his shoulder, fingers tousling his hair. It reminds him of the first time she did that, back on the boat in the Hamptons.

She's so quiet he thinks she may be asleep, but she sighs as she says, "I didn't tell him that we might have a baby together."

"What?"

"My dad. I don't want to tell him until I'm sure."

"Say that again," Rick requests, his heart so full it can barely be contained in his chest.

"I don't want to tell him until I'm sure?" she asks, staring at him like he's so very, very strange, wondering what point he's trying to make.

"No...the part before that."

"We're having a baby?" she guesses.

"Yea…but say it again without the question mark."

She smiles softly, and it spreads, "We…_might_ be having a baby."

He leans in to kiss her and repeats, "We're having a baby_._"

She turns away and warns, "I'm disgusting right now, Castle."

"You're so, so beautiful." He kisses her anyway.

* * *

A few days later, Kate is released from the hospital. They have kept their secret between them, deciding that they'd begin to tell people about their relationship and the baby once she's feeling better and the first trimester is officially over.

She's up and about, although she has to walk carefully since the stitches from her surgery pull when she moves. He can already see the way her limitations are frustrating her. She doesn't enjoy needing assistance, and avoids asking for it whenever possible, so he tries to anticipate her needs. He's pleased to be by her side, wants to show her that he's there for her even in times like these, when life is tough and real, and so much more complicated than their first few days together at the beach.

He's not sure how the logistics of their lives will work out. He kind of hopes she'll come home with him to his apartment and never leave, but she insists on going back to her place to recover.

That night, they're lying in her bed. He's awake, poking around on his phone. Beckett is sleeping quietly next to him, her head on his chest as he gently strokes her back with his fingertips.

Paging through social media, he sees posts from his friend Sy, the man who allowed them to borrow his boat back in the Hamptons.

There's a picture of Sy's noticeably pregnant girlfriend as well, captioned '_And this happened_...' Something about it seems wildly odd. Sy has always been adamant that he'd never have children or be tied down in any way.

Rick takes his phone to the living room and calls. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he asks, "So I thought you said you'd never, ever, ever have kids. 'Disgusting, snotty little leeches,' isn't that what you told me?"

"Still true," Sy chuckles.

"What changed your mind about the 'no kids' rule then?"

"Monica wanted 'em, wanted to get married, settle down… I said no way. She told me it's some kinda freak accident, but I know she torpedoed the condoms, you know, poked pinholes in them. Figured it out too late."

Rick manages a chuckle, mumbling under his breath, "Mystery solved."

"Don't ever ask for one from my stash," Sy jokes.

"You excited now that you've decided to go for it?"

"No way, man. But at least I travel a lot. Probably a lot more in the next few years. I don't know how you did that Mr. Mom routine. Not me, man. But, if it makes Monica happy, she can deal with it, and then everyone is happy, right?"

After the call ends, Castle glances into Beckett's room at her, remembering the frantic search for condoms on the boat, and the fact that after all of that, using them was pointless. It also means they likely conceived that child the very first day they were together, perhaps even the first time.

Sy's disinterest in his own child leaves an irritated taste in Rick's mouth. He and Kate are counting the days until the end of the first trimester, hoping everything is okay, while Sy is busy planning travel to avoid parenthood. He's always been annoyed by disinterested fathers, feeling it gives all dads a bad name.

He crawls back into bed next to Kate, carefully wrapping her up in his arms. There's a sense of guilt within him that she handled that case, the one with a dead child and three dead cops, all alone, and now he knows she was pregnant, too. She navigated that minefield all while her body was awash in hormones making her tired, nauseous, and emotional. When Meredith was first pregnant, the back of a box of cereal made her debilitatingly sad, and a rainy day threw her into a fit of rage, and those are just two examples of the emotional firestorm she created daily. Obviously Meredith and Beckett are vastly different people.

He keeps thinking about the baby, wanting her or him to know they are wanted in this world. Sure, this early on the developing cells have no cognition, no concept of love, life, or purpose. Hell, it doesn't even have ears with which to hear those spoken words yet.

In spite of those obvious impediments, he feels the need to start the dialogue immediately (Alexis knew the sound of her father's voice quite well by the time she was born). He moves down the bed, whispering to Kate's tummy, "Hey, little guy. Hope you're doing okay. It's your D-"

"Castle?" Kate interrupts, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he answers, believing Beckett will think him completely insane for attempting conversation under these circumstances.

"Did you just call my pussy 'little guy'?"

He starts to chuckle, but it crescendos into a full bodied laugh. "I did not."

She starts to laugh, too, mostly because his is infectious.

When the laughter fades, she asks, "Were you talking to…" her eyes glance down her body.

"Maybe. I know it sounds crazy, but—"

She shrugs. "Sounds kinda sweet. Go ahead."

"In front of you?"

"Hate to disappoint you, but Newb and I are pretty inseparable for a while."

He beams, enjoying her use of a term other than 'embryo.'

With a sweet smile of approval, he confirms, "'Newb'? I like that." Turning back to her belly, he says, "Hey, Newb. It's your Dad. Just checking in from out here. Want you to know how thrilled I am that you're around...and we look forward to meeting you on the outside. Not that you should rush. Take your time growing, getting stronger, smarter, and bigger. When you're fully cooked, we'll be ready and waiting."

"Fully cooked?" she playfully scoffs.

He looks up at her, seeing the hurricane of emotions swirling in her (the same ones he notes in himself): hope, fear, uncertainty, awe, excitement, and panic, but most predominantly, love.

"This kid…" he declares with great certainty, "is gonna be amazing."


	12. Chapter 12

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 12

* * *

After the turbulence of the previous weeks, things settle significantly in the following days. Beckett handles the news of the likely reason behind their surprise conception with relative ease, mostly because she's relieved to understand what happened. Quietly she hopes Castle stays very far away from Sy's girlfriend, and that they don't meet socially. Even though their social lives have been almost nonexistent, Castle is known to throw a lot of parties, and Kate predicts that at some point, paths will cross.

The quiet days that follow are a blessing and a curse, free from most stress, but allowing a bit too much time for thought and reflection. During these previous months, an interesting chain of events has unfolded, beginning with her road trip, interrupted by Gina's texts, evolving into circumstances that will forever change the course of their lives.

Without any of those individual dominoes in the row, she probably wouldn't have woken up this morning spooning Castle. The ache in her abdominal muscles as a result of her stabbing and surgery is often eased if she sleeps with her arm over him, her tummy against his back, one knee hooked over his hip. He's like a living, breathing heating pad, and it feels soothing (at least on the nights they can spend together). He seems to love it, though, the free and open bestowing of her affection.

The sex is starkly absent since she's out of the hospital, understandably so. Initially she waits to see if the lack of physical intimacy makes their relationship crumble, or if there really is more to this than desire and attraction. After all, it's easy to avoid fights and feel enamored when they're naked.

When they don't instantly implode because sex is out of the picture, it makes her wonder if they have what it takes to make a lasting partnership. She doesn't say that (won't say it, barely admits it to herself in silence). Although she's rational, she avoids jinxing it.

As unnerving as the "Easter Bunny" attack had been, she's healing well. Of course there is a lot of time to think about motives and the chance of future attempts on her life, but Montgomery won't let her near her own case, and Ryan and Esposito won't tell her anything about it either (Montgomery's threats to them must have been truly artistic).

Castle has been with her for every single appointment, whether for surgical follow-up, the pregnancy, or simple bloodwork. She tells him before each visit that she can handle these appointments on her own, but he faithfully shows up without fail.

When she meets with the obstetrician she'll work with for the remainder of her pregnancy, tests show Newb is growing on schedule, and the first trimester is very nearly over. There are some benefits to finding out about a pregnancy a bit late in the game. The obstetrician assures her that every day the risks become lower, and her next few appointments will be monthly since there's no need for more frequent monitoring.

She asks Castle to get a form she intentionally left in the car so she can speak privately to the doctor. The difficulty with being in a relationship with such an intelligent man is that he's rarely fooled. Although his curiosity for all things related to her is undying, he doesn't protest.

The doctor advises Kate that she can carry on much as normal, avoiding overly-stressful situations when possible and getting plenty of rest.

She is positively itching to get back to the case and try to wrap it up and move on with her life. Although she's been given a few more weeks of medical leave by her surgeon, she doesn't feel she needs it. She wants a crack at this case. Montgomery has said he'd prefer she wait until the case surrounding the attack on her is solved, but it's time to start convincing him she's ready to come back.

* * *

Autumn is creeping up on them, the sun's rays a bit more yellow-orange than bright white that early afternoon after the appointment. Castle drives, watching the way that warm light brightens her face each time they travel through an intersection between the shade of the tall city buildings around them.

Kate is reading a pamphlet she received from the doctor about the baby's development and what can be expected, and she pauses suddenly and asks, "It's annoying, isn't it?"

"What's annoying?" he wonders, glancing over at her from the road ahead as soon as he's at a red traffic light.

"All of my reading, online research, questions for the doctor. You already know all of this, you've been through it all before…pregnancy and babies."

"It's been about seventeen years since Alexis was this tiny. That's a long time and a lot has changed." Placing his hand on her leg, his thumb skimming over her thigh, he continues, "Besides, it's the very first time I've done any of this with you."

As they walk into her apartment, she abruptly blocks his progression and asks, "Do you find this horribly unattractive?"

"Your apartment?" he asks, looking around. "I like it—"

"No," she replies with a deep sigh of frustration. "_This_."

She sort of gestures near herself, and he shakes his head, as he tries to decode, "What's _this_?"

"Me. The pregnancy thing."

"What are you talking about?"

"I just…things have cooled off between us since—"

"Not because you're pregnant. Surgery. Healing." He waits for her to comprehend, then jokes, "I tried to make a move in the recovery room, but that intern told me sex with postop patients is frowned upon. People are so uptight."

"I don't want to lose our spark already."

"Full disclosure? You're the sexiest person I have ever seen." She begins to smile until he adds proudly, "Well. Besides that dashing man who greets me every morning in the mirror, but how can you compete with that?"

She shakes her head, but asserts, "I'm serious."

He will never understand how someone so amazing, beautiful, and brilliant could have even a hint of insecurity for any reason whatsoever.

He whispers, "If things work out with us, there will be lulls from time-to-time for a variety of reasons. But then we can look forward to the end of each lull, when we make up for lost time. Personally, I can't wait until we can get back to what we're good at, and—"

"Thank god," she answers, taking his hand and leading him toward her dining table.

Pulling herself onto the surface carefully, he can see her injury still requires some caution.

"I checked. Obstetrician said it's fine," she insists, and his shirt is already unbuttoned and on the floor and she's working on the tee shirt he wears beneath.

She's so efficient and speedy in her undressing of him that he thinks her ability to defeat clothing is part of her overall arsenal of sexual superpowers.

"Take off your shoes," she orders as she unlatches his belt and opens his zipper, slipping her hands beneath his boxers and grabbing his ass as she pulls him against her.

Horny Beckett may be his absolute favorite Beckett, one completely lacking the poised professionalism she wears like armor in nearly all other circumstances. "I love it when you're like this," he nearly cheers, realizing that he's already almost entirely naked (it _is _a superpower).

"I don't think you understand. I can't wait," she whispers throatily, kicking off her shoes, "I _need_ you so bad I could scream."

"Me too," he quickly nods back.

She pops open the button on her jeans and says, "Help me out of these?"

"Love to," he answers without hesitation, delicately sliding them over her hips. He's less delicate with her shirt, wondering why today of all days she seems to have so many buttons._ Is some nefarious villain re-buttoning buttons he's already unbuttoned? _It sure as hell feels that way.

Her breasts fill her bra and are spilling over the top edges of the fabric, and he sounds giddy as he says, "It's been killing me to keep my hands off your boobs. Do you have any idea the type of restraint that requires?"

Rather than taking offense, she shares in the thrill, grabbing his head and pulling his face to her chest, his mouth is already moving over her breasts before he even has the bra off. He's mumbling muffled compliments against her flesh.

"It's so unfair," she says even as she moans.

"What is?"

"I'm already pregnant, and we've still never had sex without protection."

"That _is_ unfair," he answers as his head pops up. With a lusty half grin, he adds, "Justice for Caskett!"

She pauses, eyebrows furrowing, and inquires, "What in the hell does that mean?"

"I'll explain later," he replies, his mouth electing to busy itself with tasks other than speech.

With complete solemnity, she grabs his face between her hands, and states, "I want to feel you come so deep inside me."

He pauses for the length of three seconds, just staring, soaking up her desirous demands. She has him overloaded already, brain running scenarios of all of the things he'd like to do, trying to force a sprinting libido to a more manageable idle.

Kate has no interest in idling.

Her thighs holding onto his hips, hand wedged between their bodies to guide his cock, she pushes her heels into the backs of his legs and takes him inside her. He groans, his ribs rumbling from the strength of the sound. Even that rumble seems to turn her on.

She's generously coated in wetness, the temperature of her core just a little hotter than he remembers, her flesh there somehow both yielding and tight, her body accepting his, hugging him into her depths.

It's only been a few weeks, but feels like eons, leaving him to wonder how he survived without this before.

"You feel incredible," she praises, sounding close already, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end and forcing his hips into motion.

He nods, hoping she knows he means _me too_, even though he can't bring himself to glance at her face right now. He knows in his mind's eye how she looks when she's like this, sensual and lusty, lips wet and parted to give free escape to those sounds she makes, so hot and seductive it's almost too much.

Instead his lips descend on hers, sliding with sweet tenderness as he paces his thrusts slightly. He hasn't even had time to kiss her until now. He loves her, _LOVES_ her, something full and all-encompassing and completely uncontrolled. The uncontrolled part seems to apply to the emotional aspect as much as the physical.

She returns the kiss with such force of passion, but her heels and hands push against him to spur him on. In matters of intimacy, he's often experienced her epic impatience, and he knows normally she'd flip him onto his back on the table and take over until he's lost inside her. Surgery has slowed her down a little.

"No time for foreplay today?" he voices, although it isn't a complaint, he just enjoys pointing out how much she wants him as often as possible.

"Later," she exhales.

"You feel so good," he adds as he slides back inside her yet again. "I missed this."

As she nods her agreement, she bites his lip before she gently soothes it with her tongue, her zeal for these encounters always furtive.

"Technically later would be after-play, not foreplay," his words fade into a lower moan. "Which sounds fun, too. More of a wrap-up?" He exhales gruffly. "Postgame show?"

"Or foreplay for the next round," she answers in a way that ends further questions. He loves how she says it like he's stupid for not considering the most accurate possibility.

"Even better," he opts, tugging her hips closer to the edge of the table while she holds onto him.

"Then stop messing around and get to work," she tenderly goads, taking his jaw in her hand as the look on her face tells him everything he needs to know about how she feels.

Locking onto her hips, he shoves into her body, burying himself as entirely as he can. She screams her pleasure, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. "I love you," she nearly squeals with the next thrust, "so, so much."

Damn how those words make him harder, hotter, less composed. They've expressed their love since her surgery, told each other in sweet ways and supportive ways, but never like this.

Each time they've had sex before, some part of him has held back, attempting to police his words.

He can hear her say these things, can say them in return. Now he can growl in the waning seconds of passion that he needs her, loves her, loves the way they are together.

* * *

That round leads to another, and another a bit later than that. Her man has talents in the sack, and she doesn't hesitate to tell him so. Beckett sneaks a few Tylenol and a cold pack for the soreness in the muscles around where she was stabbed, but is far too satisfied to care about a bit of discomfort.

She rolls her eyes as her inner voice tells her: _Love is a powerful drug_.

Evening comes quickly, and Kate kicks Castle out of her bed to shower, reminding him that he has dinner plans with Alexis.

"Wanna come along?" he suggests as he dresses.

"I think she'd rather have you all to herself. Besides she's going to get suspicious if I'm always hanging around."

"She's probably already suspicious."

Speaking from experience, she reminds, "If we have dinner, the evening will end, and you'll try to get me to stay at your place. And I will, for a little while. But I'll have to get up in the middle of the night and sneak around so I don't run into Alexis in the morning. Then you'll feel guilty that it's late and I have to go, so you'll get up to come with me. Just go enjoy your dinner, and I'll see you tomorrow."

He fusses over his hair in the mirror, then says, "What if I told her tonight? Just the part about us seeing each other…after that, we won't have to hide it anymore."

"Is that a good idea?"

"No point in keeping our relationship a secret from her. Would give her time to adjust to the idea of you and me before we tell her about the baby."

"That's your call, Castle."

"Then, someday soon, you could come over...and _stay_. No more late night trips home, just a warm bed...maybe a nice little _wakeup call_ provided by yours truly?"

* * *

Castle takes Alexis to dinner at one of their favorite places, deciding it's best to tell his daughter about the relationship he and Kate are in, especially since it seems to be going well (complications of the outside world aside).

He'll reserve the discussion about a younger brother or sister for a later date.

The conversation isn't difficult, perhaps even too easy. He states simply after a bit of catching up over the delicious variety of appetizers they share, "So, Beckett and I are seeing each other…romantically. Dating. We have been for a little while now."

Without pause, Alexis flips the drink menu to look at the desserts and says, casually, "Okay, Dad."

"It's going pretty well, I think. So I thought you should know."

"That's nice." She doesn't sound so convinced. Or interested.

"It's…pretty serious, Alexis," he adds, wanting her to understand. This isn't some woman he wants to take out a few times and forget.

"Of course it is," she replies, smiling sweetly for just a second before she points at a chocolate mousse pie dessert for them to share. "This...and the sundae? Split them?" she offers.

"Sure," Rick answers, attempting to dismiss the topic of dessert so they can talk about other things. "Are you okay with this?" he continues.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you have any questions or want to talk about—"

"Nope," she replies, getting a server's attention to add to their order.

* * *

When he goes to Kate's apartment next, she's scrolling through cribs on a website. He enthusiastically flops next to her on the sofa and says, "Shopping for the nursery?"

"Not yet," she clarifies. "Just looking."

"I saw the cutest little wall clings at—" he pauses and curls his lip at her current selection, reading, "_Small space nursery solutions_? We don't need that. We'll convert the one guest room so Newb has his-or-her own room. Plenty of space in there for a _luxury_-sized crib to stretch out all those fingers and toes."

"At your place, that's great. Here…I'll have to make space in my room. Or maybe I'll move things around, section off the dining area. I'll figure something out."

"Here? In… _this_ …apartment?" he surveys the space.

"Yea. For the nights we stay at my place. What do you think about this set?"

"It's okay," he says distantly. "If the kid doesn't mind being all cramped up."

"Well, we have time. You get to pick the baby stuff for your place, so I figured I'd—"

"We can pick it out together," he interrupts. "Our baby. Our furniture."

It feels too soon to discuss moving in, but he kind of wants to anyway. She's still talking about the items on the website, showing him different designs, but he's lost in his head, untangling thoughts of how to handle everything.

It is strange how the thought of her and the baby staying here kind of bothers him, but it truly does. _Does she mean the three of them? Just her and the baby?_

Logically he understand it isn't a rejection (he wouldn't normally even give a passing thought to cohabitating so early in a relationship, but given the woman and the circumstance, he is considering it), but why would they stay here when he has so much space?

In truth, he's gun shy about greater commitments, even with her. He has failed marriages behind him, and wants this to last. He's waited for her (maybe even pined a little) and thinks maybe this relationship could stick if they don't screw it up.

* * *

Kate's presence for dinner at the Castle residence becomes more commonplace in the days that follow. Often, but not always, she stays the night. It's a bit out-of-the-ordinary, but not unpleasant. Alexis seems rather unaffected by all of it, not angry or rude, but careful and reserved.

After a few nights, Alexis comes home from school in a pretty good mood, and seems to be a bit more present at dinner. Conversation seems just a little easier than it was before.

Even though she makes Castle occasionally cringe, it is amazing how wonderful Martha is at injecting life and distraction into a situation. As entertaining as the matriarch is, Kate busily wonders if Alexis's hesitation about the relationship is based on concerns that her father will get hurt, or maybe she doesn't like his choice of partner, or perhaps she doesn't think the relationship is going to last.

Beckett also can't help but wonder how Alexis will handle the news they'll share with her in about a week.

Telling stories about her classes at school, Alexis opens up a bit more after testing the waters, even allowing a smile once or twice. Martha (after a few drinks) pours more wine as her granddaughter talks, placing glasses in front of her own plate and her son's, and then Kate's. "Ah, what am I thinking," Martha says happily as she swoops the glass away from the table with her own brand of flourish, "sorry, Katherine, forgot you can't have that." She chuckles and adds knowingly, "_Obviously_."

Alexis pauses mid-sentence, and says, "Katherine?" noting the use of a formal name that typically Martha reserves for those closest to her. "Obviously? Why can't she have it?"

There's a brief moment in time when all three adults around the table try to clear the stunned hum from their minds, and just as Kate is about to say: _Can't mix it with my pain medication, _it's too late.

"You're pregnant," Alexis says, like she should have known all along. "That's why we're doing these family dinners." Turning to her father, she asks, "Is this why you told me it's serious with you two?"

"I said it's serious because it is," he replies.

"Gram knows? Does everyone know?"

"Only the people in this room," he assures. "Gram found out when Kate was in the hospital."

"It was high risk at first, and we weren't sure what would happen," Kate adds, feeling out of place speaking, but wanting Alexis to feel less excluded. "Because of my accident and since it was so early on—"

"_Accident_?" Alexis interrupts, shaking her head in disagreement. "It wasn't an _accident_. Someone tried to kill you. I wouldn't consider that an accident."

Castle says, "You were the next person I was going to tell. Promise. We were waiting, wanted to be sure everything is okay before involving—"

Alexis is clearly considering many things, and then she interrupts, "I'm going up to my room to do some homework."

At that, dinner comes to a screeching halt. Beckett goes back to her apartment that evening, trying to give Castle and Alexis some space to talk without her interference. Forcing her way into the situation won't help, so she chooses patience.

* * *

Rick and Kate are watching a movie at her apartment the next evening when he sees a text pop up on his phone from his mother. It says: _Check Page Six. _He ignores it at first. He has no interest in the garbage written about some diva she knows. A short while later, he receives another text from Gina that says: _One sided, huh? _With a link for a website. And those are only the first of many texts he receives.

Castle pulls up the gossip site, and sees the headline: _Writer-Muse Duo's Romance 'Heats' Up. _The article lists both of them by name, and also mentions the attempt on her life, and rumors of 'a baby on the way for the pair.' There are pictures with the article, mostly of the two of them sitting together in her hospital bed after the attack, taken by a rather unsophisticated cell phone. A few photos are from the summer fundraiser they attended and Ciara's wedding, likely found on social media but now shared here.

With that, their secret is out in the open.

Some people offer congratulations, some are irritated they weren't told before. Many ask if the words they've read are true.

Alexis remains largely silent, saying nothing about the news itself or how she feels about it. She comments once or twice about the fact that everyone at school knows about her father's 'tabloid-worthy personal life.' Her refusal to entertain any further discussion on the matter makes Castle a bit insane. He hopes he isn't losing the connection they share, the bond.

* * *

A few days later, Rick attends a meeting with Gina (in her official capacity as publisher), and his agent, Paula, while Beckett has breakfast with her father. The funny thing about 'scandals' is their ability to increase sales for artists, and writers are no exception. In fact, since news of the romance and pregnancy have broken, there has been a substantial increase in book sales, and his second Heat novel will be released in the upcoming weeks (with a notable spike in pre-order sales).

Paula comments that it would have been even better for sales if the story would have broken two to three days before the new novel's appearance on stands. "Still trying to act like the _Nikki Heat_ you're so attached to is the one on the page?" she adds with a told-ya expression that's so cocky it should needle him a little (although it doesn't since he's pretty damn happy about the fact that the living, breathing incarnation of his fantasy isn't limited to a textual existence).

Gina, again, mentions that he should be grateful she texted Beckett and 'dinged up' her bike, or none of this would have happened. "It would have happened," he insists, although he secretly wonders how long it would have taken. "You should apologize to her at some point," he adds sincerely, although the publisher's responding look makes it clear an apology isn't on her to do list.

Of course a gossip column isn't how he (or Beckett) would have liked to have shared the news with those closest to them, but at least everyone knows. On top of it, it means more money in their pockets, and that should help reduce the sting a little. Although Beckett is annoyingly stubborn about finances and paying her own way, something else he needs to figure out how to work with. She deserves to benefit from this whole gossip fiasco (and he feels a little guilty that his fame and the book he wrote based on her are the reasons why she's tabloid-worthy in the first place). His wives never had any problem taking his money, but he has to argue with Beckett about who buys dinner.

As he prepares to text her to find out how things went with her father, he receives a call from Montgomery's assistant to come to the station immediately. Rick's chest puffs as he drives there, feeling indispensable to the NYPD (at least in the 12th).

He's not sure if he should tell Beckett, and elects not to. She should avoid stress, and if she hears he's at the precinct, he's positive nothing will stop her from stepping off that elevator.

Entering with a purposeful and proud gait, he makes it only a few steps before he nearly runs into the cross-armed chests of Ryan and Esposito.

"Hey guys," Castle cheerfully says. "Miss me? We got a case?"

"_We_?" Espo shakes his head. "Who's this 'we'?"

"I don't know no 'we.'" Ryan chimes.

"You're mad about the article?" Rick winces. "I am, too."

"Mad about the lies," Ryan counters.

"The deceit," Espo adds.

"The future godson or goddaughter we weren't informed about."

"I thought we were family," Esposito finishes defensively.

"We are?" Rick asks, choosing to hear only the compliment. "We definitely _are_. I didn't know you felt that way, and—"

"I'm not so sure anymore, Bro," Esposito says to Ryan.

"Me neither," Ryan replies.

"Look, guys, we were going to tell you soon!" Castle defends. "I promise, just with—"

"Let's go," Montgomery barks his orders from far across the floor.

Ryan and Esposito circle behind Rick, one of them shoving him in the center of his back to send him marching forward. "Where are we going?" Castle asks, more with suspicion than excitement.

They don't answer, but as they take him to interrogation, the suspect on the other side of the table is not one he would have expected. Beckett smiles guiltily at him from the hot seat. She's wearing her uniform (a rare sight), and a blond wig sits on the table next to her cap. "What's going on?" he asks.

"Tried to come in here and work on her own case," Montgomery begins without the slightest hint that he finds this situation amusing in any way.

"Because she doesn't trust us to get the job done," Espo adds.

Beckett begins. "Guys, it's not that—"

"What's with the disguise?" Castle inquires.

"Tried to sneak in here as a uni and get copies of the files, right under our noses in plain sight," Montgomery explains.

"Where'd you get the wig?" Castle chuckles.

Beckett replies quietly, "Martha."

"See," Rick cautions, "I've always suspected associating with my mother leads to a life of crime. Now you know why I had such an extensive rap sheet prior to reforming my ways and using my powers for _solving_ crime instead of _dabbling_ in petty forms of it."

"She took the files we have on McKie, on Edwin Rhodes, her attacker," Montgomery answers severely. There is nothing funny about this situation in his mind. "And she's _supposed_ to be on leave."

Castle studies Kate worriedly, "I thought we agreed to leave this alone—"

"Now that the article is out, everyone knows," she immediately responds.

"So they know," he shrugs. "Doesn't change anything."

"_Everyone_ knows," she insists, poking the table with her forefinger. "Not just our friends...the public. McKie, Rhodes, anyone I've ever investigated. You think prison rec rooms and libraries don't have gossip papers? Some news magazine show called my Dad for a quote, so I guess we're going to be on TV, too. If McKie was after me before, don't you think he's even more motivated now? That bastard killed his own kid, you think he'd spare ours? If rumors are already circling that—" she pauses, shakes her head as her words drop off.

"What rumors?" Castle asks.

Beckett replies, looking at the protective men surrounding her and trying to create a shield between her and the world. "Guys," she asserts, "I can handle it. Let me see the rest of the files and help finish this."

"What rumors?" Montgomery echoes.

"I got a call earlier today," she confesses. "One of the guys I put away."

"How'd he get your number?" Rick questions. Since she hasn't been working, he's dropped his guard, assuming she's safe, and the thought of her in danger rears its head again.

"He was calling to warn me. He was one of my early collars. A lifer. Good guy."

"Such a 'good guy' he's locked up for life?"

"Yea. He got mixed up with the wrong people, involved in gang violence when he was young. He told me I was one of the few people in the world to ever really listen to him. So, yea, I caught him and locked him up, but he harbors no ill-will," she argues. "He's helped me before. You can ask him."

"So why is he calling you now?" Montgomery asks.

"He heard chatter in the yard," Kate sighs, "inmates asking around about me, looking for other inmates who—"

"Harbor ill-will?" Castle completes the sentence when Beckett fails to fill in the blanks.

Kate bobs her head. "He wanted to warn me. That's all. He had my number because I gave it to him. He's given me some information in the past that has helped me close cases."

"You gave a convicted felon with gang ties your _personal_ phone number? You should be more careful," Rick argues, bile climbing up his throat. "What about—"

"Being pregnant isn't going to change my job or how I do it," she interrupts sternly, crossing her arms.

"No, it doesn't change your job and it doesn't change who you are, but maybe it should change how you do it a _little_. It's not just about the job anymore," he replies, choking down the fear and concern that want to emerge. He wants to tell her it's about _her _(not her job). And _him_. It's about the baby, Alexis, and Martha, and the life they're building (he hopes). These are sentiments he's often wanted to share recently. She's part of his family, important to Martha, beloved by him, admired by Alexis (even if the adjustment is taking her some time).

"I need you to let us handle this," Montgomery (thankfully) takes over before Castle says any more. "We will get this all tied up with a pretty bow, make sure McKie and anyone he's stirred up can't hurt you. We're close on this one. Just give us a little more time. If something happens to you, to that baby of yours, I'll never forgive myself."

"Sir—" Beckett begins, ready to argue before he's even done talking.

"No argument. But I know you won't listen. So I'll resort to threats. But make no mistake, I am serious. Dead serious. You want to keep working with him?" Montgomery nods toward Castle.

"Yes, sir," she answers at low volume but with undoubted certainty.

"That's what I thought. I'm trying to work something out for you so you can. And trust me, it hasn't been easy. This little scandal of yours has caused me all kinds of headaches. But if you get mixed up in this, can't follow orders, end up getting yourself or Castle hurt…it won't fly. You need to prove this situation doesn't impact your judgement. So the two of you are going to make yourselves scarce. I don't want to see either of you around here until I give my say so. If I catch you here for any reason…whether it's sniffing around this case, or to pick up the spare shirt you left in your locker…you're done. If you can't follow orders, the two of you will never, ever work together, or consult on a case, or even share a damn cup of coffee in my precinct. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Beckett responds, firming her jaw.

"And you?" the Captain asks Castle with just as much authority.

"You have my word," Rick answers. At this point, he wants Beckett as far away from this case and the precinct as possible. He's not sure he can stand the prospect of losing her again.

"Good. Get out of here. Let us handle this."

* * *

Rick decides to take Beckett and his family to the Hamptons for a long weekend. He'd like to whisk Kate away to somewhere more exciting, but it seems wise to stay close to doctors and to remain accessible in case there is a break in the case and they're needed.

It might be fun, recapturing some of the elements of their early romance (even though they won't be alone this time). Also he desperately hopes things will improve with Alexis, and the beach is just the place to relax and enjoy life. Maybe a few days away together is exactly what everyone needs.

He runs a few errands, picking up items on the combined list made by the three women accompanying him. When he returns, the first sight he sees in the living room is Kate, standing behind Alexis, one hand gripping his daughter's arm as Martha looks on, fists bunched excitedly in front of her.

"Just like I showed you," Beckett commands, and Alexis, moving precisely, manages to hit a pressure point and break free.

"Like that?" Alexis asks.

"Exactly!" Kate replies proudly. "Don't forget...do what you need to do. If you're put in that position, the rules of a fair fight go out the window. Neck, groin, nose, knees are all good places to strike. I know it sounds simple, but a good eye poke can not only disable an attacker, but it makes you harder to see while you get away."

"What's going on?" Castle asks.

Alexis picks up her Gram's purse and says, "Try to take this from me when I walk by."

"What? Just grab it?"

"Like a mugger," his daughter replies. As he does, she uses her force to sink an elbow into his stomach and demonstrates the way she could kick at his knee if she chose to really defend herself.

Kate is a natural instructor, giving pointers during the demonstration. She uses Castle's frame to show a few other effective striking places (although she doesn't use any force, he seems nervous each time that the next move might sting).

"Then there's always this classic…" Beckett tells Alexis with a trouble-making glint in her eye.

Grabbing his ear as she has in the past, he yelps an, "Ow," as his posture lowers and she controls him with only the grasp of one finger and her thumb.

She lets go after a second, her hand affectionately patting his chest as she casts a spell on him with her eyes alone. They hold the love-drunk stare for a second before Kate pulls out of it, remembering Alexis is still present, watching.

But as they separate, Alexis doesn't seem upset. She's looking through the bags he brought home from the store, taking out the items that she requested, and stashing them in her luggage.

The teen pauses and says, "Thanks for the suggestions, Detective Beckett."

"No problem, Ms. Castle," Kate replies politely.

Alexis smiles uncertainly and awaits the explanation.

"Maybe we could drop the formality," Kate offers. "You could call me Beckett. Or Kate...either one is fine."

With a nod, Alexis seems to agree, but doesn't really answer.

"Just think about it," Kate replies.

Martha and Alexis head up the steps to get the last few things they want to take, and once they're out of earshot, Castle teases Kate, "Teaching the red-heads how to torture me? I feel so betrayed."

"I'm pretty sure they knew how to do that long before I came into the picture," she counters.

"What brought on that impromptu training session?"

"Umm…" Kate ponders her response before she says, "This morning after you left I told them I was going to sneak into the station."

"They both knew?"

"The wig was Martha's idea."

"Of course it was."

"And when I told them about what was going on, that I wanted to get in there and solve this so I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder, Alexis said…"

He waits, attempting but failing at patience. There are so many things Alexis might have said, and the words spoken when he's not around still make him very nervous. "What did she say?" he prods.

"That even if we resolve this, one can't be too careful. She told me that as the eldest daughter in the family, it's her responsibility to know how to protect her younger sibling, especially if she's expected to babysit."

"She said that?" he blurts.

"When she came home from school this afternoon, I offered to show her a few things and she agreed. She should know how to protect herself anyway, Castle. A young woman today needs..." Kate tries to continues like it's an ordinary conversation about the importance of self-defense, but it isn't. Both hope this signals Alexis's acceptance (maybe eventually even excitement?) of the growing family.

Rick feels the emotions swelling in him as evidently as they rise in Beckett, and they share a hope-charged stare.

"Dad?" Alexis shouts down the steps.

"Yea?" he replies, relieved that she's at least acknowledging the coming addition to the family.

"Bring the gear for some late night outdoor laser tag?"

"Getting it right now," he says, allowing his expression to be consumed by his grin.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N—Okay, this is the final chapter of this particular story. Thank you all for making this fun, for your patience and support, and for enjoying these silly little stories with me. Thank you so much for your comments. I've really appreciated each and every one of them. I'm sorry I'm not good at responding to them…time to write is hard to find, but please know how much I appreciate the time you've taken to read, and in some cases respond, like, or follow. -JQK**

**Consequences**

(Post Season 2 What If AU)

Chapter 13

* * *

Early one morning a few weeks later, Esposito calls Kate. He has news about McKie. The man who'd murdered cops, killed his child, and orchestrated an attack on her was dead. His end was an especially gruesome one. As happens from time-to-time in prison, particularly to people who harm children, there was a "mix-up" during shift change, and the guards who were supposed to be monitoring the inmates were nowhere to be found. The responsible parties haven't been identified. Kate doubts they ever will be.

Espo tells her it's for the best. Scum like McKie don't deserve to breathe. But it bothers her. In some ways, she would like to investigate, even if only to find the truth.

She wonders if the hit was arranged by prisoners who adhere to a certain code, or the inmate who'd warned her she was in danger, or COs, or cops (maybe even cops she knows). She's not sure if McKie is dead because he was a cop killer, or a child killer, or because he targeted her. There seem to be plenty of possible motives for his murder.

There is a bit of guilt, too, since she feels her child and the people she loves are all safer now that he's gone. There is relief that she'll no longer have to go through the process of sitting on the stand, staring down that pathetic excuse for a human.

This is one of those times when the closing of a case doesn't give her that sense of satisfaction. Even Kate isn't sure what justice would look like in this situation. No punishment would be adequate, no sentence ample.

After all of the horror and sadness and pain, the case slams to a halt. The only step that's left is to pick up and continue on, solve new crimes, live new moments.

Then Montgomery personally calls, and invites her and Castle down to the station for a boatload of paperwork. HR relationship waivers. Legal disclosures. Departmental paperwork. But when it's all done, when the last agreements have been accepted and signatures have been signed, they are back to the business of putting killers behind bars.

That…feels a little more like justice.

* * *

If Beckett thought the first Nikki Heat book release party was overwhelming, she probably _really_ hates this one. Even by Rick's standards, the frenzy is bordering on ridiculous. _Isn't it great? _

The moment they step out of the hired car, there are flashing camera lights and hollered questions. At events like this, those who shout at her always call her "Nikki." He isn't sure what she thinks of being addressed that way.

She doesn't hide the little tummy she's grown, her dress hugging every dip and curve her body has to offer. And she looks _incredible_. Castle is certainly transfixed.

Alexis and Martha are with them, completing his preferred entourage.

Beckett walks in on his arm, her hand docked on his inner elbow, and his hand covering hers to keep it locked in place. It's the first official event they've ever made an appearance at as a couple.

He feels so proud with her by his side.

There is much to be proud of. His family is intact, and his daughter has adapted to the changes in their lives well, for the most part. The weeks and months ahead may pose challenges at home, but none feel insurmountable. To say that his new book's pre-order and initial sales are record-smashing is putting it lightly. He's received a request to extend his contract from two more books (after this one) to four. The cherry on top of this success sundae is their return to police work. He and Beckett are back at the precinct. He has told her that, somehow, her powers of observation and interrogation have grown more incisive.

* * *

After official introductions at the party, Castle has business to discuss, and Kate finds the more comfortable circle of her precinct familiars. They tease her about her celebrity, and about how she actually fell for the man she wanted so desperately to despise when she first met him. She doesn't mind the jokes tonight. This feels like a celebration.

As she accepts the teasing of her cohorts (countering with her sharp tongue because they'd expect nothing less), she hears a polite cough from behind her. She turns and finds Gina. "A moment of your time?" the publisher requests.

Kate steps away with the woman, looks around, and says with plentiful sarcasm, "Gosh, I'm _really_ sorry, I didn't bring my bike. Or even a car…so if you feel like smashing something valuable, I'm not sure what to offer you."

"Funny," Gina dryly replies. "I'm actually here on official business."

"Oh?" Kate asks, quite suspiciously.

"We renegotiated Rick's contract for two additional books in the series."

"Yea. He mentioned that. You'll have to discuss that with him."

Gina produces a contract and places it on a table. "Review this with me."

"What is it?"

Pulling out a chair so Kate will sit, Gina takes the spot next to her. "As part of his renegotiated contract, Rick insisted you will be paid for your services as a consultant."

"Why?"

"Consultants are often paid, especially given your level of involvement and the amount of _research _it took."

"I wouldn't even know how to put a dollar value on something like that since—" Kate begins, her words stumbling when she sees the number Gina points to on the page. "Seriously?"

"Per book," Gina adds plainly.

"Per _book_?" Kate would choke if she'd been eating or drinking anything. Feeling awkward, she continues, "This isn't necessary. I do my job, and if he is able to use that to—"

"Please just sign the damn thing," Gina replies. "Trust me, it wasn't my idea, Rick insisted on this, and he won't sign his until you sign yours. And if he doesn't sign, it will be a huge pain in my ass."

Kate stares for a while at the contract, reading over the fine print. The short time she spent as a law student is helpful, but the contract is pretty straightforward.

Probably assuming Kate is stalling stubbornly rather than studying the text, Gina says, "I'm not sorry, so I won't say that I am."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not sorry for taking Rick's phone and tricking you into coming to the Hamptons this past summer, so don't expect an apology for it."

"Oh," Kate replies, bewildered, turning her eyes back to the paper, not sure what the proper response to a statement like that would be even if she wanted to give one. If this is Gina's idea of_ making nice_, it needs so much work.

Gina, one notch above a whisper, says, "I'm not stupid. It was infuriating, being lied to like that. A woman knows. It was so obvious he had a thing for you. Clearly I was right."

"Wait…you want _me _to apologize to _you_?" Kate scoffs, so very close to laughing aloud.

"No. I'm simply explaining myself. I don't understand the hold you have on him. You're beautiful and all," Gina says like she's stating the obvious even though she doesn't want to, "but he's met plenty of beautiful women. So what is it about you that's_…different_?"

Kate shakes her head, uncertain how to respond or what to say, and also quite sure if she were to speculate on the matter, it wouldn't be with Gina.

"But I _am _sorry about your motorcycle," the blond admits honestly, appearing far less bellicose. "That wasn't fair. You didn't deserve it. And, in retrospect, I'm a bit embarrassed about that."

"Thank you," Beckett responds. It's amazing what a stated apology can do.

"So you know, I reimbursed Rick for the cost of the repairs since I was the responsible party."

"That was thoughtful—"

"Thoughtful? No. I'm just…being accountable. Besides, do you have any idea the kind of money the two of you are making for me?" Gina laughs. "When he killed off his last character, I was furious with him. I was almost positive he did it just to spite me. I thought maybe his best writing was behind him."

"Well…thanks anyway," Kate awkwardly says. She really has no idea how to take Gina, nor does she wish to discuss anything about Castle with her. To be perfectly frank, it's odd to imagine him ever being married to this woman.

"Don't thank me. Just sign the damn contract," Gina adds. "If he didn't meet you, start writing about you…well, who knows what would have happened."

Kate finishes reading the contract, and nothing seems out of place. Taking just a few more seconds of consideration, she places the tip of the pen to the paper and signs her name.

"Great," Gina says, instantly standing up, taking Kate's contract, folding it and tucking it into her leather attache case. She pulls out a second contract, and says, "Let's wrap this up. Where in the hell did he go?"

Beckett sees Castle's face when he realizes she's talking to one of his ex-wives, and his eyes instantly widen before he extricates himself from those he's speaking to and navigates through the crowd.

"She signed," Gina states, producing a second contract and giving it to him. "You're up."

He holds out his hand, and Gina huffs as she takes Beckett's neatly folded contract out and offers it to him. Castle looks it over, but Kate isn't sure if it's because he doubts Gina's done her part or because he's concerned Kate hasn't actually signed. As soon as he's satisfied, he returns her completed one to his publisher. He puts his own on the table, peels back the upper pages until he reaches the signature space, and quickly signs his well-practiced autograph.

Pleased, Gina smiles at Kate and says, "Congratulations. Good luck with your kid."

"Thanks," Kate replies.

"Oh, and I hear you're pregnant as well, so good luck with the baby, too," Gina adds, looking at Rick to make sure he understands the slam.

He gives that fake smile accompanied by the matching, tittering laugh. "Fuh-nny!"

"You didn't have to do that," Beckett whispers to him after Gina leaves.

"Do what?" he shrugs it off.

"Put your contract on the line for me."

"It was never on the line," he somewhat boastfully returns. "There's no way they'd let an opportunity like this pass them by."

"Still."

"Without you, there would be no Nikki Heat," he comments quietly, spoken in such an unassuming way that she feels the truth of it.

A server approaches with a tray of appetizers, and Castle grabs one and pops it in his mouth. Kate wasn't going to take any, but for some reason the waiter seems familiar, so she accepts one and smiles and thanks him, studying for a moment. She feels a sense of fraternity with people who work at events like these, those who move around parties unnoticed. Usually she considers herself one of them, and she tries to treat them as equals to the prominent people who typically overshadow. They are all equally human.

The loud rush of the event returns to her focus as they're called for photos. Beckett insists that Castle go for some on his own, after all, _he_ is the famous writer. She stands along the periphery with Alexis and Martha, watching the circus from the sidelines, relieved to be there for a moment. It isn't long, though, until they're calling for _Nikki_. She's not sure if she likes the use of an alter-ego/character's name when in public, or if she wishes they'd get her name right. She'd rather not be called up at all. Soon, she assumes, the interest in her will fade as new people and gossip capture the public's attention. _It's just a matter of waiting it out. _

While Kate is considering these things, Alexis leans in and asks, "Wasn't that guy at the-"

Before Kate can even turn, Alexis and Martha jump. There's a flash of light off a reflective surface, transporting Kate back to the moments just preceding her stabbing. But there is no sharp pain that follows this time, at least not for Kate.

She's grabbed from behind, a fist capturing her shoulder as another hand reaches around her and covers her lower abdomen, roughly palming her as she's dragged back. Training so ingrained it's practically instinctual takes over, and she fights, breaking her attacker's nose with the back of her head before she frees herself.

But she isn't fighting alone. She hears a man's voice call out in pain. Alexis has the waiter's arm twisted behind him as he's on the ground, the heel of her dress shoe poking into his back as she asks Kate, "Are you okay?"

Martha, remembering their multiple training sessions in recent weeks only after the danger is over, adds her own flair, reaches down and pokes him in the eye, turning back toward Kate and nodding in satisfaction.

Security is on hand, but Espo and Ryan are on the spot first, and cuff the guy before they're even certain what happened.

Reaching over to put a hand on Alexis's elbow since she looks so stunned she seems unsteady, Beckett replies, "I'm just fine. Are you okay?"

The girl looks almost like she's in a trance. "It was just a phone in his hand," Alexis says as she looks at Kate. "I thought he had a weapon."

"You really did great," Kate answers, noting a bit of pride. "After only a few sessions, that was impressive."

Alexis leans toward Kate a little more as her legs become wobbly, and the detective wraps her arm around the girl in a half-hug that is accepted. In fact, Alexis definitely leans into the embrace. Beckett might be as surprised over the near-hug as Alexis had been by the attack.

To Kate, this little scuffle is no big deal, the same type of scrape she gets into on the job all of the time. (And without a weapon, she wasn't in that much danger from the start.) But to Alexis, the entire happening is out of the ordinary and clearly disconcerting.

Alexis's surprise is understandable. That surge of adrenaline kicks in, but the plummet when the threat is disabled can leave one feeling a bit flat when all is said and done. But in a moment like that, Alexis chose not to run, to come to Beckett's aid, and that says more than any words of acceptance could ever convey.

The half-hug becomes a blunt forced full-hug the moment Castle is close and throws his arms around both of them, holding them tightly. "Everyone okay?" he worriedly asks, dragging his mother into the pile. He leans back enough to check them for injuries.

The cop in Beckett has questions. Now that Alexis is with her father, Kate leaves the hug to investigate, studying the incapacitated man while everyone sorts out what happened. His face is bloodied from a broken nose, body still pinned to the ground, and yet he's staring up at her with an obsessed and crazed focus that seems uninhibited by the pain he must feel.

Remembering Alexis's words right before everything went berserk, Kate realizes she knows the restrained man. "You were at the hospital, right? Food services. You brought up my meals."

Alexis nods. "He was definitely there. When I was waiting outside your room to see you, he kept asking me about you. I should have known something was off."

"I knew you'd remember," he says to Beckett in a way that causes eerie chills in all who hear. "You were so nice to me. I knew we had a connection. You felt it, too."

Not one to be easily creeped out, Kate drops down on her haunches so she's nearer to the suspect and says, "Did you take the pictures? Sell them?"

"Your fans deserve to know the truth so we can all celebrate with you, be there for you to support you. Rook is predictably nowhere to be found, but I'm here."

"Hey," Castle argues, taking more than adequate offense.

"You're not Rook. You're just the writer," the man says, his disconnect with reality plain to see.

"_Just _the writer?" Castle blusters.

Beckett sees what's behind Castle's mask. She sees his fear, his worry for her and concerns for her safety, probably even doubt about whether he should have created Nikki in the first place. Her smile is sweetly reassuring, and he catches it. Now that she has his focus, she shakes her head at him, hoping he understands the way her eyes are telling him: _You can't argue with delusion. _

"I love you, Nikki," the confused fan replies disturbingly, trying to reach for her but unable to because of the cuffs. "And your baby, too."

Even though Castle was warned not to argue, he's protective, and says what he thinks must be said. "Selling her out, exploiting the personal, private moments after a terrifying, potentially life-threatening attack…taking advantage of her when she was vulnerable, when she should have felt safe and protected? That's a crappy way of showing your _love_."

It's rare to find him so free of jocularity, but there isn't a hint of it now. As much as he brushed off the gossip when it broke, acted like it didn't bother him at all, she sees the truth now. She feels Castle's rage at this betrayal, the pain he feels because she was hurt. Those moments after her surgery, together they considered birth and death, love and pain, and found each other as constants.

She can't wait to be alone with Castle so she can tell him that the exploitation of what they shared that day in the hospital doesn't change the way she values those seconds and his presence during them. It doesn't diminish what occurred between them, or threaten the choices they made that day. Shortly she'll take him home, and when they're together, she'll breathe these thoughts into his ear in the darkness of their room. She'll make sure he knows, he understands, that she feels they're stronger for what they've endured together.

But right here and now, she's inches from an obsessed fan, photographers snapping pictures that (sadly) she's become so accustomed to she scarcely notices for the time being. Alexis is looking on wide-eyed as her father braces her. _Wonder if this fiasco will result in a bump in book sales as well? _

Beckett stands, telling Ryan like this is any ordinary evening in her life, "Let's get this guy a psych eval." Approaching her family, she asks, "You guys ready to get out of here? I could use some ice cream."

All three heads bob back at her as they turn to find the door.

* * *

**One Month Later**

Second trimester bursts of energy make Kate almost difficult to keep up with. She seems to have allowed herself to truly become excited about her pregnancy and the adventures that await them.

Nights and mornings are downright cold some days in late autumn in the Hamptons, but the mid-afternoons when the sun is shining brightest are perfect for walks. Rick and Kate find an ideal one during a weekend away and capitalize on it.

Rick takes her to the Cedar Island Lighthouse in the afternoon, wanting a long walk unencumbered by interruptions. Plus it's just plain romantic. He took her there before all of this, before they kissed, before they knew what it was like to wake up together nearly every day. Sometimes he considers this their first date...sometimes he thinks it was the fundraiser or the day they spent on the jet ski. Not that pinpointing the exact first date matters; they're here now.

He still sometimes wonders if she knows his thoughts, because as they walk, she takes his arm, her fingers eventually pushing up his jacket sleeve and finding the line of softer skin on his arm from the scar he received the first time he brought her here and gashed himself. It feels like yesterday, or even an hour ago, that last they walked here.

He recalls the awkwardness, the way he felt when he realized he never should have brought Gina here at the start of the summer, and the sound of Kate's hurt footsteps as she hurried away when he realized he'd upset her. And he remembers the way she looked in that outfit she wore for her road trip, standing before him in the shirt she ripped to create a bandage for his cut.

Continuing on the path, they near the foot bridge, the one they stood on when he discussed restoring the lighthouse while she stared on, when he tried so hard to let her know that she was (and is) absolutely perfect even though she's wounded. And damn the wounds they've picked up since that day.

The sun winks off the windows and stone bricks, and he feels a little remiss that he's not listening to her as she talks. He hears her, sure, feels the way her voice swims in his brain and warms his chest, but the content of any shared thoughts is lost on him.

Before they left the city, they received a blanket, soft, comforting, and handmade, from her father, something he purchased for his first grandchild. He hasn't said much about the pregnancy or Kate's boyfriend (he seldom meddles in her life), but the gift signals his enthusiasm in a tangible way, a way that has meaning for her.

It's the first gift they've received for the baby. She mentions it, says that as they receive presents, they'll need to figure out which ones belong in his loft and which belong in her apartment. "We usually stay at your place, and I don't have that much room," she comments, "so we probably won't need as much there as—"

"Can we _not_ talk about this for five minutes?" he snaps, this assumption that they'll maintain separate homes hitting a sore spot within him.

"Sure," she responds, and he feels the way she retracts even though she hasn't physically moved even an inch further away.

They walk for quite some time in silence, and she finally says, "Things will be more normal when we go back home on Monday. I'm sure we'll catch a case."

He processes in silence, realizing she must think the topic he wishes to avoid is their personal lives and shared child, and that couldn't be further from the truth. He wants to talk about them, about the baby, about the two-residence situation they have. After these months together, he's still not sure how to talk to her about some things.

"Hey," she says, pausing their walk to address him face-to-face, "if you need some space, time to yourself, all you have to do is speak up, just tell me and—"

"I don't need _space_, Beckett," he sharply counters.

"Fine," she shouts back, putting a hand up between them and continuing her walk, her irritation manifesting in the crunching stones beneath her soles.

He can practically hear the muttering in her inner monolog. It's adorable...even when he's frustrated with her. But he doesn't feel like fighting, not here, not today.

"Remember how pissed you were at me the last time we walked here?" he reminisces without the bite of frustration.

She quickly whips her head toward him, slapping him with a look at the sudden change in tone. She shakes her head and keeps walking.

"I'm still really good at agitating you. Haven't lost my edge," he notes.

"Apparently I'm better at agitating _you_," she retorts. She stops her march abruptly and asks, "What's with you today? You're lovey and sweet, then distant and angry, and now you want to take a trip down memory lane? If you're not happy with this, if this is too much, I told you from the start that—"

"It's not that," he interrupts. He hates when she tells him he isn't obligated to her.

"I don't know where we stand sometimes, Castle."

"I don't either. And...I think that's part of the problem."

"I love you," she states, confidently, like she's listing known facts. "I've made that crystal clear. I want to be in this relationship with you, exclusively. I've told you all of these things before. So I'm not sure what the problem is. You don't want that?"

"I do. You always seem to think I want a way out."

"Because you _do_."

"No, I don't," he shakes his head. It appears the time for bluntness is upon them. "You say you want this relationship, that we're committed and serious, and then you talk about you and the baby staying at your apartment. About you decorating there and me decorating mine, separately. So which is it? We're committed, or we're keeping one foot out the door and in our separate homes?"

"I don't have one foot out the door," she argues, like she's very annoyed by even the suggestion.

"So why the insistence on keeping your own place?"

"Where do you want me to live, Castle?"

"With me. Obviously," he shouts loudly enough to cause some sort of wildlife to scurry in the brush behind them.

"You've never asked me," she yells back.

"Neither have you."

"You want me to offer? You want to cram all of your stuff, and all of Alexis and Martha's things _and_ the baby into my one-bedroom apartment?"

"You've never even brought up the concept of living together."

"You haven't either," she replies, face bunched. "You want me to invite myself to live at your place? Push my way into your loft completely uninvited, hoping you won't resent me for it later? You want me to suggest we all get a new place?"

"You want a new place?"

"I feel kind of guilty shaking up everything with Alexis and Martha. Especially Alexis. She's dealt with a lot of changes recently. I don't want to ask her to move on top of it."

"Might not be the best time for more big changes."

"I can't read your mind," she states softly.

"I don't want to wonder where you're going at the end of the night," he says, hurt tingeing his voice. "I don't want our child growing up with a 'mom's house' and a 'dad's house' when we're not even divorced. That's what it seems like. Like we're separated already. Doesn't it?"

"Kind of. In a way."

"I want us to be a couple. To be a family. You can keep your place if you want. We can use it like a bone shack."

"A bone shack?" she chuckles.

"Yea. A love lair. A place to hide in once in a while. But I want us to live _together_. I want our licenses to have the same address...for us to live under one roof. When we use the word 'home,' I want us to be referring to the same place."

"Okay," she answers.

"Okay?"

"I'd like that."

"Wait, that's it?" he pauses, perhaps not expecting so simple a resolution. "So we're moving in together?"

"Yea. If you're ready for that."

He tilts his head, wondering if it's really what she wants as well.

She interprets correctly, and adds, "I'm ready."

He practically yanks her into an embrace, allowing the happiness in him to run wild. "Seriously?" he asks.

She nods, looking every bit as enthusiastic. He wishes there was somewhere nearby that they could be alone so they could have happy celebration sex..._ happily fucking cohabiters. _Too many damn people are out today.

Also interpreting that look correctly, she kisses him seductively and whispers, "Tonight."

They walk for a while along the trail, and he notes, "Have you put any thought into names?"

"Maybe," she responds with a glance across her shoulder at him.

"I'm really feeling traditional. Considering family names."

"Is this the surname conversation?" she cringes.

"Not yet. I'm talking about given names. I thought about Johanna as a middle name, after your mother, if it's a girl."

"Won't your mom feel left out?"

"My Mother will get to see the baby almost every day. She shouldn't complain. She's remarkably excited, have you noticed? More than I thought she'd be."

"I know!" Kate agrees. "Part of me expected some resistance over being a grandma again...feeling older and all of that."

"Me too." He adds, but then returns to his previous thought. "If it's a boy, we could use James for the middle name, after your dad."

"Really?" Beckett comments, sounding stunned. "I dunno. That's sweet, but I'm open to new names, or—"

He interrupts, "Richard is a good name. For a first name, I mean."

"Umm…too confusing to have two of you, and…" The gears in her head start turning as she scowls. "I _know _what you're doing."

"What?" he says with that fake, high-pitched innocence he's not really all that good at making believable.

"You want to say our son is 'Rick James'? Don't you? Not gonna slide that one past me."

"Imagine the little onesies," he teases with giddy excitement. Holding up his hand like he's displaying the words printed on the clothing, he adds, "'I'm Rick James, bitch!'"

"Not a chance, Castle," she softly chuckles as she shakes her head, taking his hand more tightly in hers.

"I guess we can work on the names." He smiles as he looks at her, enjoying the way he can make her laugh, feeling the strength of the love flowing between them.

As he considers the way that lighthouse stands, powerfully immutable in the distance, he sees a flash in his mind's eye of Kate in white, wearing her beautiful smile...the real one, full and open, when it seems her whole self is grinning. He can already imagine their family around them, their new child there as a tiny flower girl or ring bearer. He's going to marry Beckett one day, here in this place. He knows it, begins to consider the ring he'll buy, and how he may ask, all of the delicious little details in the story he wants to write and _live _with her. The certainty of it all feels beautifully, perfectly, inevitable.

—**The End—**


End file.
